Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

One morning, I was in the workshop working on a pair of telepathic notebooks. The idea was that writing in one notebook would make the words appear in the other, allowing communication across wide spaces. Only, the ‘wide spaces’ part was proving tricky. Oh, and the part where writing on one notebook made words form on the other. So, pretty much the whole thing.

I wasn’t ready to give up, though. Ever since I had earned the initiate rank in artificery, Master Cooper had been sharing some of our more complex customer requests with me. This was what I’d always wanted, and it was through working on projects like these that I would earn the next rank in my profession – adept. I was determined to finish the notebooks without asking for help. If I asked Cooper too many questions, he might think I wasn’t ready for the tougher projects yet. That I couldn’t handle the work that would really build my artificeric muscles. I needed to do this alone.

Now, if only I could have a second to work in peace.

An artificery workshop is a busy and dangerous place at the best of times. What with all the sharp saws, complex machinery, and the crystalized form of mana that we artificers use, which must be kept in a specially made, weatherproofed storage shed. And the smells! The aromas in my workshop would wrinkle your nose one way and then wrinkle it the other, and the air always vibrates with the rhythmic tink-tink-tink of artificers’ hammers and the rough bite of a hacksaw going back and forth. I wouldn’t recommend visiting me at work if you were looking for peace and quiet.

Add a dozen huge wolfhounds, a cantankerous old man, a town crier with a never-ending appetite, and an initiate artificer, and you had the recipe for a hectic work environment.

Not only did we have all of that going on, but artificery master Jack Cooper and alchemy master Janey Morgan had recently married. Janey, though she didn’t mind being referred to as Mrs. Cooper or Mrs. Cooper-Morgan, had legally retained her own surname. This was fair enough, given that she had surrendered the lease on her home and shop in Brunswick, loaded all her clothes, alchemy equipment, and jars of chemicals onto a cart, and traveled across Easterly to live here in the craftstead.

Having an extra person living with us sure made a difference. Things were hectic, no doubt about it. But then, as if to make it even harder for me to concentrate, Cooper had made a deal with someone whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to make my working days difficult.

A knock at the door heralded the appearance of Phil Brownhill, who used to work as the head of house in Jace Porter’s manor, and had recently quit to start a business building model ships. I was still getting accustomed to seeing him wearing casual clothes. His baggy, patterned shirt with sleeves rolled up just didn’t look right on him. Nor did the weeks’ worth of gray-brown beard on his face. I was used to seeing him open the door of Jace Porter’s manor replete in his smartly pressed, well-fitted black and white formal suit, along with his impeccably groomed face and hair. The man standing in my doorway that morning looked like Phillip’s wild younger brother.

Seeing him, I felt little prickles of irritation up and down my arms, like I was being bitten by ants. I’ve always had a long fuse, but ever since Phil had started working here in the craftstead, I found myself having to take more deep breaths than usual. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Phil; it was just that I found everything he ever said or did annoying.

Even so, I was determined not to show it. Phil was paying Cooper so he could work here in the craftstead, and he had as much right to be here as me. No matter how he behaved, I would make him feel welcome here in the workshop.

“I told you, Phil,” I said. “You don’t need to knock every time before you come in. This is your workshop as well as ours while you’re renting space in it.”

Hearing me use his name, Phil smiled. Until recently, he had been known throughout Sunhampton as ‘Phillip’. As part of his resignation from his lifelong position as ‘head of house’ of a manor, he’d also insisted that folks used this shortened version of his name. I guessed that to him, Phillip and Phil were separate people. Phillip wore a smartly pressed suit and addressed everyone as sir. Phil wore cologne, fashionable stubble, and rumpled shirts.

“Sorry, Lewy,” he said, stepping through the doorway and swinging a crafter’s satchel from his shoulder. “Manners are like chickweeds. I can pull one, sure, but give it a week, and it grows back.”

“What did we say about ‘Lewy’?”

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Right. You hate it.”

“You need to relax with the door knocking and that kind of thing. Stop having your lunch at exactly the same time every day. Things don’t work like that here in the craftstead. Enjoy your freedom.”

Phil started unpacking his array of metal files, planes, chisels, wood glue, stacks of bamboo strips, and a half-built ship onto his workbench, occasionally glancing back at me. “The manor was hardly a prison, let’s be honest. I used to eat pomegranate for breakfast and I slept on a goose feather bed. I’ve spent my whole working life under a set of rules, Lewis. Not using any when I work here feels strange. It’s like I’m trying to scrub out a tattoo. Hmm. Perhaps I ought to actually get a tattoo. That’s something old Phillip would never have done.”

“I guess it’ll take some getting used to, but you’ll learn to enjoy it,” I said.

“That remains to be seen. Rules keep fun organized and safe. A rule a day keeps chaos at bay.” He leaned over his workbench, as if to whisper to me even though he was all the way across the room. “I made that saying up.”

“It’s very catchy,” I said.

Phil headed over to the counter in the far corner of the room and pressed a button on the copper kettle to lift up the flap. Seeing that there was no water in it, he held it aloft.

“What did we say about the kettle, Lewis?”

My earlier resolve to be patient with Phil broke suddenly and disastrously. Weeks of internal frustration suddenly came to the fore, like I was a wasp nest and Phil was unwisely poking me with a long stick while wearing a shirt with ‘Please sting me’ written on it.

Struggling to keep my temper in check, I replied, “I think we said, ‘Leave me alone and let me get on with my work.’”

Phil wagged his finger. “Now, now, Lewis. I know this has always been your workshop, and I know I can be irritating sometimes, but there’s no need to get testy. Structure is what keeps civilization going, you know. There’s a wider structure in society, and this breaks into smaller patterns of structure in towns, organizations, and right here in the workshop. Follow my rules, and we’ll both be better workers.”

I was a student of the ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything’ school, but having Phil around was like hearing the end-of-term bell ring. His rules irked me to the point that I had considered telling Master Cooper I simply couldn’t work in the same workshop as him. Half of me suspected that Cooper knew this already and was enjoying the fact that I was getting annoyed. That would be exactly the kind of thing he’d find amusing.

“I’ll fill the kettle this time,” he said, “But remember the rule; the last person to empty it should be the one who fills it up again.”

As I watched Phil leave the workshop and head out into the yard and toward the water pump, I took a moment to remind myself of my earlier pact not to get worked up.

It wasn’t that Phil was a bad person. Heck, I had always liked the guy. Not majorly so, more in the way I liked strawberry jam. It was good to spread on toast from time to time, but I wouldn’t want to eat it every day. That was the problem, I supposed. Ever since Phillip had started his model ship crafting business and had rented workshop space here at the craftstead, it was like I was being forced to eat jam with every meal. Jam sandwiches, jam pies, even jam with my steak and potatoes.

He's a good person, and he means well. Besides, he’s a fellow crafter trying to build up his business, and Cooper’s workshop is the only place he can afford. I should be nicer to him. I WILL be nicer to him.

Bolstered by my resolve and by the reemergence of the more positive part of my personality, I felt better. Everyone has a side of themselves that they don’t quite like, I supposed. The bitter part, the mean part, the part that secretly hoped their neighbor’s fancy new cart was struck by lightning, or the part that got so annoyed by a coworker’s incessant yammering that they silently wished a mild form of plague on them. Not a nasty kind, just a little pox that would keep them away from work for a day or two.

I had that side to me just like anyone else, but today was a good day, because I had defeated mine. I even managed to smile at Phil when he returned from the yard holding a now-full copper kettle that he had filled up using the outdoor pump. Setting this on an artificed glow stone to heat up, he opened a small pantry door and took out a mug.

“Cup of tea or coffee?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” I answered.

“Well, which one?”

“Coffee.”

“One cup of hazelnut roast coming your way,” he said, before taking out a small, black book from his trouser pocket. Unwinding the twine that kept it closed, he thumbed through the pages, his gaze scanning up and down them.

“Oh,” he said. “We have a problem.”

“We do?”

“It appears that I have made the last two hot beverages, Lewis. I’m afraid I can’t make you a third. That will upset the system greatly. You’ll have to work back your hot beverage debt before I make you another.”

A short walk into Sunhampton later and I was in Paisley’s store in town, pacing around her shelves at a rate that would wear out the floor if I wasn’t careful. The window on her shopfront - made from glass that constantly sparkled not through artifice but Paisley’s care and attention – looked out onto Coiner’s Way, the main thoroughfare of Sunhampton. Way across the street, opposite the store, was the Sunny Café. Next to it was a new cotton craft shop opened by Mo Henderson, who supplied Paisley with scarves to sell. On either side of Paisley’s store was a cobbler’s workshop run by Rosie Blue, and a tailor’s store owned by Mr. Flueitt, who was retiring soon.

If the workshop at the craftstead was my happy place, then Paisley’s store was a close second. The workshop was like my main home, and her little shop was my coastal, weekend getaway place. It was always warm, well lit, and best of all, I knew I could visit during opening hours and my best friend would be waiting with a hot chocolate and a smile. And no sign whatsoever of a hot beverage debt notebook.

Right now, Paisley was sitting behind her counter, sketching out plans for a shop refit. We’d talked about me creating some artificed shelves for her which would allow her to make the most out of her limited store space, while she was hoping to utilize the rear storage room as part of the main customer-facing store to double its size.

“He’s driving me insane,” I said, walking a circuit around the four long, wooden shelves in the middle of the store. “He has a little book where he keeps a tally of how many drinks we’ve made for each other.”

“Phillip means well,” said Paisley. “Sorry, he wants to be called ‘Phil’ now, doesn’t he?”

“I know he’s not doing it to annoy me. But the rules, Paisley. Endless rules! It’s a damned artificer’s workshop! I don’t know why Cooper rented workshop space to him. It’s not like we need the money.”

“Crafters look after fellow crafters. Phil needed a space where he could make his boats, and he couldn’t afford anywhere else. Cooper’s just helping him get started,” said Paisley.

“I know. I ought to be more patient.”

“You’re allowed to get annoyed, Lewis, and you’re doing the right thing by getting it out here in my store, to me, rather than losing it with Phil. Maybe you ought to talk to him.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Talk to him. Tell him exactly what he’s doing that bothers you, and ask him to stop it.”

I paused my pacing. “Speak to him about why he’s annoying me?”

“Sure.”

Resuming my pacing, I said, “You’re crazy. That’ll never work. If people did that, then problems would get worked out easily.”

“Fine, but in the meantime, can you stop walking around? You’re making me tired just watching you. And you’re kicking up dust.”

“Sorry,” I said. I grabbed a broom from where it was leaning next to the counter and quickly swept the floor, before putting the broom back in its place. Then I walked around the counter and sat on the stool next to Paisley, elbow to elbow. “I guess it isn’t just Phil. Things are changing. Janey’s moving in to the craftstead, too.”

“I’ve heard that’s what happens when you get married.”

“It’s great having her around. She really brightens up the place, you know? But Cooper’s reorganizing the yard to make room for a new alchemy workshop and storefront. The place is going to be hectic for the next few weeks, what with all the builders. I guess the saving grace is that he doesn’t need to change the workshop. It’s artificed so the inside is bigger than the outside.”

“I sympathize. I really do. Nobody likes to change. Except maybe if you’re locked in a dungeon, and the change is getting released. Or if you’re on fire and the change is a bucket of water. But think about it from Cooper’s point of view.”

“What about it?” I said.

“All the things he’s had to get used to. He lived on his own in the craftstead for decades, and then you come along, and suddenly he’s got an apprentice sharing his house and his workshop. Then Chris came to live with him, and now Janey. If a stubborn old guy like Mr. Cooper can get used to it, then surely you can?”

I had never really thought about it from that point of view. I guessed that for me, all the changes in my life had been good. I’d swapped my stepfather for Master Cooper. Traveling around Easterly alone, for living in the craftstead. No ambition, no direction, for a career in artificery. It’s easy to get used to change when all the changes in your life are positive ones.

What about Cooper, though? He’d given up living by and working for himself, to having to teach me artificery while sharing his home with me. He’d even, reluctantly, conformed to the chore schedule that I had drafted. I guessed I had never really stopped to appreciate just how much Cooper’s life had altered in the past couple of years.

“I suppose I can be a little more patient with everything,” I said.

“With Phil, too?”

I nodded. “And with Phil.”

The afternoon was what some people might call dreary, but I liked it. The worse the weather was outside, the cozier it felt inside. I enjoyed being in the warm workshop while the wind howled like a wolfhound demanding its dinner. I liked how the rain pattered against the windowpanes, every gentle tap on the glass a reminder that I was indoors in my favorite place, working at my bench under the glow of gentle lamplight. It was a reminder that I was warm and dry and had no obligations ahead of me but to spend a few hours crafting.

Phil had taken a seat at a workbench on the opposite end of the workshop to me. In front of him was the keel of a galleon he was making, with no sign yet of masts or rigging. It was intricate work, and often involved him leaning over in an awful posture, while wearing a magnifying glass over one eye.

“Cup of coffee?” I said, standing up and heading to our refreshment counter in the corner.

“Oh. Thank you. Two sugars, please.”

I made Phil and myself a coffee, then I stood by his bench until I saw him take out his little black book and make a tally mark next to my name. With hot beverage parity almost restored, and happy that I had at least made an effort to get along with him, I settled back behind my workbench.

Phil turned around on his stool and looked in my direction. “What are you working on?”

We had instigated, on Phil’s insistence, a no-talking-except-when-we-were-both-having-a-break rule in the workshop, so it was a surprise to hear him ask me a question. I wondered if he was also making an effort to compromise.

“Telepathic notebooks,” I said. “Spruce Wilkinson is trying something at the Sunny Café. Some of his older customers can’t get around as easily as they used to, so he asked if there are any artificeric solutions that will help them order from the café easier. They can place their food orders at home, and he’ll receive them in the café. When they’re ready, he’ll get his delivery boy to take the food over to them.”

“And telepathy is the solution?”

“It’s not mindreading telepathy, like a psychemage,” I said. “A ‘telepathic notebook’ is just the name for it. Although, we do use miodes from a mind-reading scroll.”

He tapped the workbench with his index finger, his eyes deep in thought. “It’s complicated work, isn’t it, artificery? I always imagined…well, I don’t know. I just didn’t expect it to be so intricate. When you wear those goggles of yours, it reminds me of when I have to work on my rigging with a needle and twine.”

“I guess so.”

“Well, anyway, my galleon won’t build itself. I’ll leave you to get on with it.”

Turning around toward his own workbench, Phil soon had his magnifying lens set against his right eye and was lost in his work, tweezers in hand, his back bent in that same poor posture that I was sure would cause him problems later in life.

I turned back to my own work. Okay, I thought, eying the materials on the workbench, let’s see about these notebooks.

There were three miode types in play when creating a telepathic notebook. Working with three miodes in one item was something I had learned to do very recently, after leveling my Enchantment skill tree from Simple to Intermediate. As ever with improving my abilities or leveling new ones, the novelty hadn’t worn off yet.

“Right, then,” I said aloud. “First, I need to disenchant the telepathy scroll.”

Phil turned around on his stool and mimed pulling a zip across his lips. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I nodded in acknowledgment. In my time in the craftstead I had often worked alone, and I had gotten used to saying my thoughts out loud, almost as if by doing so I was writing them down in a crafting notebook.

Now, keeping my thoughts securely in my head, I got to work. My first step was to use my Disenchant ability on the scroll of telepathy, which had the effect of removing the mana from the scroll and converting it to miodes, ready for artificeric use.

Miodes salvaged: Telepathy

Percentage salvaged: 68%

“Huh! Not a bad percentage at all.”

Phil snapped around quicker than a cobra and mimed the zip across his lips again.

“Sorry, Phil.”

“Quiet time is quality time,” he said. Then, he added, “That’s another of my own sayings.”

“They ought to print it on tea towels.”

Phil took my reply in the complete opposite way to how I meant it, and smiled. “Thank you, Lewis.”

Returning my focus to my work, I placed the telepathy miodes in a miode pool container and set it next to the other two miode pool containers I had procured earlier. There, within the little glass containers, should be everything I needed to create the telepathic notebooks. Three miode types, for three different artificeric effects.

Miode type: Telepathy

Effect: The ability to transfer information from point A to point B without physical exertion

Miode type: Amplifier

Effect: Increases the range of an artificeric effect

Miode type: Extender

Effect: Extends the usage life of an item

Artificery could be an art or a science, depending on who you asked. There was technique and precision involved in every step, but a lot of creativity, too. The end result often owed blessings to the gods of random chance. You might intend to create a self-cleaning oven, but what you may get instead is one that adds a subtle soap fragrance to anything to put in it. Artificery can be finicky that way. The higher your artificery skill, the more chance you had of your outcome being exactly what you wanted.

Me? Well, I had risen in ranks from apprentice to novice, then novice to initiate, and I wasn’t even eighteen years old yet. That was good going. Even so, I was way, way off being in complete control of my artificery.

Let’s see if I can get this right the first time, I thought.

Using my Enchant ability, I combined the three miode types with the two blank notebooks. A buzzing sound came from the token bracelet on my wrist, and I felt all the abilities under my Intermediate Enchant skill tree get locked out for use.

Soon, token text drifted into the air in front of me.

Artificery complete: Minor Notebook of Mindreading

A notebook that can read the minds of those around it.

This didn’t sound right. I wanted the two notebooks to have a telepathic link with each other, not to be able to read minds.

I picked up one of the notebooks. While before it had been a simple pad filled with blank sheets, the kind that you might find dozens of in any general store, the notebooks had a different quality to them now. A sort of otherness, a sense of power within their depths in the same way a person could pick up a mage’s spell scroll and know that it wasn’t just a sheet of paper.

Just then, words began to write themselves onto the blank sheet of the notebook I was holding.

I really ought to be more patient with Lewis. This is his workshop, after all. He’s going to think I’m an ass. But I’ve always found it hard to concentrate, ever since I was a boy. The slightest sound just ruins my focus.

Wow.

I eyed Phil, then the notebook. Was I really seeing what I thought I was? I supposed it wasn’t too surprising that the notebook could read minds, given the miodes that I had used. Even so, this was a strong effect. Really, this was almost Journeyman level artificery, and only the gods of random chance had put it in the hands of an initiate.

Then again, the notebooks were rated ‘minor.’ That meant there would be some pretty strong drawbacks to their effects. I just had to figure out what they were.

Immediately after I had the thought, the page with Phil’s thoughts disintegrated into ash, falling in a heap on the workbench. Eyeing the sooty mess, it was clear now what the notebook’s limitation was; each page could hold only a single thought, and would disintegrate after less than thirty seconds. What’s more, the notebook only had fifty pages.

The workshop door opened. When nobody entered, I knew from experience to look down towards the floor. Sure enough, Betsy, one of our wolfhounds, had nudged the door open with her nose and walked in.

“Hey, Betsy!” I said. “Who’s a good girl?”

Phil spun around. He lifted his hand towards his lips…and then stopped, as if something had occurred to him, or he had thought better of it. This made me appreciate what I had seen in the notebook. Phil was trying to be patient with me just as I was with him, and both of us were struggling. Though this made me feel better it also made me feel guilty, as if I had pressed my ear against a keyhole and listened to a conversation that had nothing to do with me.

“Listen, Phil,” I said. “You’re paying Cooper to be here, so this is your workspace just as much as it is mine. I guess I’ve just gotten used to being here alone, that’s all. I like to talk as I work. It helps me think. But some people need silence to concentrate, so I’ll make an effort to be quieter, okay?”

He seemed taken aback. “Oh. Okay. How about I make us a coffee?”

“But I still have one more drink to make for my hot beverage debt.”

“Well, perhaps we both need to make compromises, Lewis.”

Chapter 2

I gathered up both mindreading notebooks and put them in my crafter’s satchel, before heading toward the workshop door. Thinking twice, I turned on my heel and went over to the pantry in the corner, where I opened the biscuit jar that Phil, Cooper, and I shared. Cooper must have been the last person to raid it, because the glass was smeared with oil and the lid was screwed on so tightly that I had to grunt and really put force into loosening it. When the lid finally gave up its grip, I took out six chocolate chip biscuits for my journey.

Phil watched me, his gaze following my hand from the jar to my pocket and back again. “Are you sure you have enough?” he said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fill the jar back up. I learned my lesson with the water and the kettle.”

“But six cookies, Lewis? Really?”

“Five isn’t enough, and seven is too many. What kind do you want next time? Chocolate chip again, or ginger nuts?”

Phil smiled. “How about you choose? I picked chocolate chip, after all. It can be your choice this time.”

“No problem. If Cooper asks, I’m gonna be out for the rest of the day.”

“See ya, Lewis.”

Heading out of the craftstead and down the sloping hill towards Sunhampton, it wasn’t long before my biscuit supply was gone. Just as I had planned, six biscuits had been the exact amount needed to see me through the trip, and as I chewed my last mouthful, I was standing at the beginning of Coiner’s Way, where the rain was lashing down.

The afternoon was already ending, and with the seasons perched between autumn and winter, the sky above the mercantile street was already darkening. That, coupled with a full day of rain, meant that the street was emptier than usual, with only a few people braving it. Bill Pummice, whose wagon I had once fixed when I was an apprentice, hurried past with his coat fastened up so the collar covered his neck and his mouth. A nearby couple – Emma Delaney the blacksmith and her new girlfriend, Maude - walked hand in hand, each armed with their own umbrella and trying to avoid knocking them against each other as they skirted around the puddles that were forming on the cobbled streets. Gutters filled up to the brim, drainpipes leaked and spat, boots and galoshes splashed through puddles, and from all around Coiner’s Way came the pitter-patter of rain on glass.

It was certainly the wrong day for a trip into town. A stranger passing by might take one look at my coat and scoff.

“The lad’s a fool! Look at his coat, so thin and tatty. He’ll get soaked through!”

But that was okay, because I was an artificer, and we have ways of dealing with the weather. A stare that lingered on my coat for more than a just few seconds would reveal the truth. Raindrops bounced off my artificed garment like a sword glancing off a well-positioned shield, and no matter how many times the raindrops tried to breach my defenses, they were repelled. Only my hair got wet, and I soon felt it plastered down against my head, sending little raindrops scurrying underneath my shirt collar and onto my back. I could have put my hood up, of course, but I’ve always enjoyed the feeling of my hair and face getting soaked in the rain. I’m not sure why; there’s just something refreshing about it, something that gives me a sense of clarity. Chris or Paisley would have called me mad.

“Afternoon, Initiate Cooper,” said Lee Hunter. He was standing in the doorway of his hunting shop, holding a cup of coffee in his right hand. He raised it at me in greeting.

“Hey, Lee.”

“Don’t suppose you need a crossbow? Some bolts?”

“Sorry,” I said.

“This bloody rain. Nobody thinks about hunting when it’s like this. Fishing? That’s another story. Fish love a bit of rain, Lewis. Do you know why?”

“They think the raindrops are…I don’t know…worms falling into the water?”

Lee laughed, though in a good-natured way. “It’s because there are more flies around the water surface when it rains. The fish love it. It’s like a buffet for them. You know who doesn’t like the rain?”

“People?”

“People, yes. But more importantly to me, things that live in the woods. They tend to shelter when it’s wet.” He let out a long sigh. “Kelly Flander’s tackle shop will be making a mint on a day like today.”

“Hopefully things will pick up.”

“Cross your fingers, toes, and your pecker.”

“Uh…sure. I’ll try.”

“I know a man who could do that, you know. He had to stop eventually. He had…problems. Anyway, take care, Lewis.”

“Bye, Lee,” I said.

Hurrying on through the empty street, I shared some of Lee Hunter’s dismay at the lack of footfall here today. I had never really paid attention to how busy Coiner’s Way was on any particular day. Not until Paisley opened her store. Now, I found myself always gauging how many people were around and crossing my fingers that the weather would be sunny, or if the sun was being miserly that it would at least be dry. I always hoped that tourists would visit our town and, in turn, spend a few coins in Paisley’s store. Today, however, wasn’t one of those days.

The shop bell made a tring sound as I entered. At the counter, Chris and Paisley both looked up in unison and gave me a smile and a wave. Since securing a job as the town crier in a place called Perentee, Chris no longer had to commute far away to Full Striding, and instead could walk to work and back via Hoggerty Pass, a nice country path that cut through the wild grass fields east of Sunhampton. This meant that he could spend much more time with Paisley and me here in town. This invariably involved him whiling away an hour or three in her store.

Paisley glared at me. “I thought I told you I didn’t want you cold calling in my store?” She nudged Chris. “This guy has been pestering me all week, Chris. Trying to get me to buy his tat. He reckons it’s artificed, but it all looks like junk to me.”

“Hmm. He does look suspicious, Pais,” said Chris. “We should get the guards.”

I laughed. “Maybe it’s usually junk. But not today.”

“We were just thinking of getting food at the King’s Head. Fancy joining us?”

I had never, to date, rejected an offer to get a tasty snack at the King’s Head. It was my favorite tavern. But I paused before accepting. “Were you planning a ‘Chris and Paisley the Couple’ type of meal, or a 'Chris and Paisley plus guests' kind?”

“The latter,” said Paisley.

“Then count me in.”

“Alright. I’ll just check the stock room and then I’ll lock up.”

Paisley checked every room in her store twice and then locked the front door. Eying her darkened storefront, she told it, “Night, store. Sleep tight.”

“It’s not night yet,” I said.

“But I won’t be back until tomorrow, will I?” said Paisley, giving the door handle one last try to make sure it was locked.

The three of us stepped into the street, bundled in our artificed coats. Chris’s was much bulkier than mine, and it boasted a fur lined collar that protected his neck from winter’s main weapons of rain and cold winds. Paisley’s coat was newer than mine or Chris’s, being a gift from Master Cooper and Janey on her last birthday.

“Ready?” said Chris.

“Ready,” answered Paisley.

We set off at a fast walk which Paisley soon turned into a race, and after a dash across the puddle-filled Coiner’s Way, soon we were in the warm and dry King’s Head, sitting at a four-seater table near the hearth.

“You both owe me a drink,” said Paisley, squirming to get comfy in her seat.

“Why?”

“Because I won.”

Chris said, “We weren’t racing, Pais.”

“Well, I was, and I won pretty handily, I have to say. C’mon, don’t be sore losers. I bought you a sugar roll when you beat me at chess that one time, remember, Chris?”

This being a rainy, late autumn evening, the tavern wasn’t as busy as normal. A lot of the tourists who visited Sunhampton came here for the various hiking trails around the town, and this meant that a lot of its footfall was seasonal. A part of me worried about Paisley’s store because of this, but I hadn’t broached the subject with her yet. I think I was waiting for her to bring it up, because I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. Then again, if I had thought of this then Paisley, as an initiate merchant, had already planned for it long ago.

Although there were no tourists around, the tavern wasn’t lacking in Sunhampton residents. In fact, Cooper and Janey were sitting over by the bar with their stools pushed as close to each other as physically possible, whispering and giggling like they were eighteen years old. We shared quick hellos when we saw them, but that was all. Cooper and I lived and worked together, so we had an unspoken agreement that we didn’t need to spend tavern time together on top of that.

Across the tavern, Spruce Wilkinson and his dog Albert, who was no longer a puppy and was almost as big as one of Cooper’s wolfhounds, were enjoying an after-work mug of ale and a small bowl of dog biscuits. Joining him was Mrs. Grant, who owned the Rolls and Dough bakery. Mr. Wilkinson and Mrs. Grant both owned local eateries, so you’d have thought they would be rivals, but that wasn’t the case. These days, they could often be seen enjoying a drink together.

“Oh, damn it. I did it again,” said Chris.

I turned my attention back to my friends. “Did what?”

In answer, Chris pulled a huge, brass bell with a wooden handle out of his satchel. He placed it on the table with enough force that the bell rang and sounded almost like the bell that Alec, the landlord of the King’s Head, used late at night to tell people it was time for last orders.

From over by the bar, Alec yelled, “What have I told you about that bell, laddie?”

“Sorry, Mr. Dewson,” said Chris. Then, to Paisley and me, he said, “I’m not supposed to bring the bell home. When I take it back to the town crier office before I end my shift, Kelly Turner comes to collect it. She’s the late-night fire warden, and they need the bell in case there’s a fire. You know, to wake people up.”

“A whole town has only one bell in it?” said Paisley.

“It’s more of a village, really. Calling it a town is generous.”

“Oh, that suddenly makes sense then. Because everyone knows that villages can only have one bell. Towns can have two or more.”

“Okay, Ms. Sarcastic. You’re right, of course. But I think people just sort of…get used to things that don’t work. Like, the drawer in Cooper’s kitchen. The one that’s so jammed it doesn’t open. We just pretend it doesn’t exist, don’t we, Lewis? It never occurred to one of us to fix it. Not even with two crafters living in the house.”

“Wow. Yeah. I guess I have a blind spot for the drawer.”

“Blind spot. That’s the right word. We develop blind spots for stuff and then work our life around them. Like, look at the table Spruce and Mrs. Grant are sitting at. See the piece of card Alec’s put under one leg? Rather than even the other legs out or change that one, he’s just accepted that it’s wobbly and worked around it.”

I could have used my Repair ability to have the table leg fixed in no time, but I made no move to do so. Once you started looking around for problems you could find them everywhere, and before you knew it, all your crafting stamina would be gone just fixing up other people’s stuff without being paid for it. Not only that, but Master Cooper had taught me a valuable secret. ‘Do something nice once,’ he’d told me, ‘and word spreads like a groin rash at a dockside tavern. You won’t be able to move for people asking for favors. You’re a crafter, Lewis, and you’ve worked hard to get your skills. So always, always charge for them.’

I often broke this rule, of course. I would never have dreamed of charging Paisley for some maintenance in her store, for example. But broadly I tried to stick to it, and it had worked out well so far.

“So if there’s a fire tonight,” said Paisley, “Perentee will just burn down?”

Chris shook his head. “No, the bell’s more symbolic than anything. Kelly can probably shout louder than it can ring.”

“Then it’s all good. Just don’t put it in your satchel when you leave work tomorrow. Now, can we order some food? I’m so hungry I could eat two horses and a pony,” said Paisley, picking up a menu.

The King’s Head now had an artificed self-ordering system, where we could browse the menu and place an order from our tables without having to talk to anyone. Master Cooper had devised the system, so it was – obviously - flawless.

Soon, the three of us ordered food and drinks, which weren’t long in arriving. Three mugs of ale came first, carried to us by self-moving trolleys, while our food followed five minutes later. Chris had opted for just one portion of vegetable curry, and a whole garlic and cheese naan bread, which was his version of watching his diet. I ordered a burger with pickle sauce and fried wild mushrooms, while Paisley’s dish for the evening was a beef and ale pie with golden, flaky pastry on top and a side of mashed carrots.

After taking my first huge mouthful of my burger and swallowing it, I said, “I wanted to show you guys something.” I reached into the artificed inner pocket of my coat and took out the mindreading notebooks and placed them on the table.

“Notebooks?” said Chris.

I leaned closer, talking in a whisper. “Mindreading notebooks.”

Paisley glanced at the books, then at me. “These things can read minds?”

“Mind,” I said. “No plurals. Seems like if more than one person is in the room, they don’t work. One being, actually. Not just a person. A wolfhound counts.”

“Still…it costs a fortune to hire a telepathic mage. These notebooks must be worth thousands!”

I shook my head. “Telepathic mages can dive into someone’s mind to find the exact information you need. They can get to the really secret stuff. I tried the notebook with Phil, and it only seems to be able to read a person’s surface level thoughts. As well as that, it pretty much just serves up whatever it likes – there’s no controlling it. Even then, it captures maybe a few seconds’ worth of thoughts before the page bursts into flames.”

“That’s a shame. I’m no crafter, but I suspect you don’t like it when things do that,” said Paisley.

“Yup. The notebooks will be used up before I know it, and I’d ever learn from them is what someone thinks about the weather. Or maybe it’ll treat me to a reading of someone deciding what to have for dinner.”

“Oh. Still, it must feel pretty great to create something like that.”

With half my burger now gone, I quickly reduced it to just a quarter with one big bite. When I had swallowed it, I answered, “Sort of. It’s like looking around your room for a book you lost, only to find a sweater that you haven’t seen for months. A nice surprise, but not exactly what you needed.”

Chris, who ate his curry - and all of his food lately, for that matter - slowly thanks to almost choking on a carrot a week ago, said, “So, the notebooks. You were working on the thing for Spruce’s cafe, right? Cooper was talking about it.”

I nodded. “An artificed ordering system for customers who can’t leave their homes to get to the café. Master Cooper allocated the job to me. It’s the first really tough assignment he’s trusted me with, so I want to nail it.”

“Couldn’t Spruce just have his delivery boy knock on the elderly or disabled people’s doors every morning and see if they want to order something?”

I shrugged. “That’s a huge waste of time since he makes deliveries to houses ten miles around Sunhampton, and not every person orders something every day. That’d be a lot of miles and door knocking just to get a dozen ‘no thank you’ answers. Also, people might decide they want something later in the day. Besides, I’m an artificer! Would you be happy if I said, ‘Why are town criers needed? Why doesn’t everyone just buy a newspaper?’”

Chris nodded in acknowledgment. “That’s a good point.”

“How’s Perentee, anyway?” I asked.

“It’s alright. Folks listen to me more there than they did in Full Striding. You find that in smaller places. In Full Striding, town criers get crowded out. You know, drowned out by the noise of the city. But in Perentee, everyone wants to hear what I have to say. The only thing is, not much really happens, so it’s a struggle finding stuff to talk about.”

“That’s where your Simple Lore and Rumor Gathering ability comes in, right?”

“Intermediate Lore and Rumors, actually, I think you’ll find.”

“Well done!” I said, feeling a short jolt of happiness for my friend. I knew how hard he’d worked on his skills lately, so it was nice to hear that it was paying off. “When did that happen?”

“Last week.”

“Last week?” I said. “You never mentioned it.”

“I guess we’ve both been busy lately.”

“How did it happen?”

Chris pushed his fork around his plate, using it as though it was a plow and his egg-fried rice was a mound of snow that needed clearing. “I learned that Mrs. Burke’s been stealing from the honesty egg box that Farmer Clarkson leaves at his gate. That was a juicy piece of news, alright. There hasn’t been a scandal like that in Perentee for maybe thirty years.”

“One person’s scandal is another person’s gain,” said Paisley. “This calls for another round of beers. Lewis will get these. His treat.”

“I will?”

Paisley spoke in the tone of voice she used when employing her Intermediate Persuasion merchant skill. “You will,” she said.

“Quit it!”

“I wasn’t really using my skill.”

“I know. But that voice you use weirds me out.”

I placed an order for more drinks, and the three of us toasted Chris’s success. As our plates emptied and our beer mugs drained, our talk drifted this way and that on the gentle waves of the evening. There was no wind of serious conversation to drag us in one extreme direction or another, and we had nowhere we desperately needed to sail to tonight.

So, as the log fire near us burned through its stock of logs, and patrons filed in and out of the tavern, we let the waves gently carry us, talking through the evening until the lights lit up along the shoreline of the night, beckoning us home.

Chapter 3

The next morning there was no sign of Phil Brownhill in the workshop, which meant that my only companion for a day of crafting was Amara, the quietest of Cooper’s wolfhounds. Amara was by far the most sensitive of the pack, and she had a well of empathy that was so deep it almost left the bounds of normal empathy and bordered on the psychic, if you asked me. She knew when any of us had a cold before we did, and would often alert us by sniffing our noses intently in the days leading up to our bout of sickness. If a thunderstorm was coming, you’d find Amara tucked in her kennel hours before the first rumble even started. Today, her quietness applied only to her temperament. Right now, the sounds of snorting and snoozing from the doggy bed underneath my workbench were impossible to ignore and would have had Phil making his ’mouth zip’ mime until his fingers hurt.

Amara’s snores weren’t the only sounds disturbing the peace today. Out in the yard, Janey was overseeing a group of builders who were constructing her alchemy workshop and storefront. To make room for it, Cooper had given her an area of the yard where four giant boulders had rested for over forty years, evidently purchased from a quarry by Cooper's great grandfather but ultimately never used. Near the huge rocks was an old, dried up well and a gooseberry bush that bore fruit only when it felt like it, sometimes missing a year altogether. The boulders were going to be removed, the bush replanted across the yard near other berry bushes, and the well would have to be dismantled and filled in.

I was looking forward to Janey having a workshop and store here in the craftstead. Simple Alchemy was one of my five artificery skill trees, and having an alchemy master within yelling distance was handy. Maybe she’d even teach me a little more of the craft, who knew? As well as that, Janey had always moved her businesses around Easterly, never really settling anywhere. It would be nice for her to have something permanent here in Sunhampton.

But boy, was it loud out there. Knowing I was a crafter, someone could be forgiven for thinking that I’d understand when other crafters were loud in their jobs. These builders were something else. It was like they were working in a huge quarry and needed to shout at the top of their lungs just to be heard.

“Over here, over here!” one would yell.

“Woah…watch it! It’s tipping over!” shouted another.

Add to that the sound of their sledgehammers, the thuds and crashes of rubble as the boulders broke apart, and it didn’t make for a focused environment. Shutting the workshop windows and closing the doors didn’t help much, either. I half wondered if I should try to artifice the inside of the workshop to drown out sounds, but that would be overstepping the mark. This was Master Cooper’s property, and adding miodes to the building’s structure was presumptive of me. Not only that, acoustic-muting artificery could also be quite dangerous. What if I made the walls dampen out sound, and then Master Cooper collapsed in here while he was working and we couldn’t hear him asking for help? Or what if there was a fire? No, I was just going to have to learn how to tune out the builders’ noise and get on with my own work.

Today, my work was a second attempt at the notebook ordering system that Spruce Wilkinson wanted. After getting home from the King’s Head last night, I had taken a cup of hot chocolate to my room, changed into my pajamas, and spent a while at my desk jotting down some ideas and trying to figure out where I had gone wrong.

The way I saw it, I had chosen the wrong miodes in my first attempt. They had made sense at the time – a telepathic link between the notebooks was reasonable for what I needed them to do. Had I been a journeyman or above ranked artificer, it might even have worked.

As an initiate, though, I had to think differently because the effect I wanted in my head wasn’t always going to be what resulted in my finished product. This was Artificery’s Law of Probability, which stated that the chance of an artificeric work matching its intended purpose depended on the skill of the artificer, the tools they wielded, the materials they used, and a small dollop of random chance.

The more complex the recipe, the more chance the dish would turn out badly. I needed to simplify things. So, that morning I had gotten washed and dressed, enjoyed a quick toast and tea breakfast with Janey, and headed to the miode storage shed in the yard.

The miode storage shed matched the old, rustic feel of the craftstead on the outside, but this old charm belied a sophistication within. It was dangerous to expose miodes to water without proper alchemic treatment first, and as such, the shed was completely weatherproof, not only due to the artificed bricks and mortar that Cooper had used when he built it, but also an alchemic paste that he had painted over the brickwork. This thing could survive a flood or a storm, which was handy, since a particularly bad storm had once caused chaos right here in Sunhampton.

“Caught me with my pants down, it did,” Cooper had said. “And I don’t like being caught with my pants down.”

In the shed, I found three different miode types that I hoped would do what I needed.

Miode type: Reflection

This miode reflects the effects of an artificed object into the nearest linked item

Miode Type: Artificeric anchor

Used to create a deep link between two objects

Miode Type: Self-Writing

A miode type often used in taverns and restaurants, allows for the self-writing of text

Before I could enchant the miodes into two fresh notebooks, the workshop door opened. Phil Brownhill entered carrying a wooden crate in his hands that almost blocked his view, and he had a canvas bag slung around his shoulder. With the door open, I was treated to a full blast of the loud thuds coming from the yard as the builders worked at breaking down the boulders.

“Morning, Lewis.”

“Hey. Coffee?” I said, noting that I actually felt pleased to see him, which was a novelty. Maybe the very act of making an effort with him, as Paisley had suggested, was changing the way I felt about having him working here in the craftstead. This was a trick one of the members of the Five Fiends, an acting troupe my mother used to run with, employed. His name was Cobby Munroe, and he insisted on staying in character for the entire run of a particular play. This pretense sometimes went too far, and he found it impossible to slip out of character again, almost as if it had changed his brain chemistry.

“A brew would be grand,” said Phil.

I stood up and walked over to the refreshment counter in the corner and took two mugs out from the pantry. My mug was a chipped one that had ‘Caution: Artificer at work’ printed on it, which was a gift from Paisley. I always drank from it. Phil didn’t care which mug he used, so I took out a novelty one that was shaped like a wolfhound. I think Cooper’s old friend, Jim-Joe Eckersley, had sent it him for his birthday. Cooper, of course, had never returned the favor.

“That’s how they get you,” he explained to me. “People trap you in these never ending chains of gift giving. Why don’t we all just save our money?”

“Those evil people,” I agreed. “Have you explained your thoughts on gift giving to Janey yet?”

“No, why?”

“I’d just like to be there when you do, Master Cooper.”

After setting a jug of water on the artificed glow stone to boil, I began measuring coffee into two cups. One and a half spoonfuls for me, two for Phil, who liked to begin his day with a huge dose of caffeine.

While I made coffee, Phil set his crate down on his workbench and unslung his bag, placing it nearby. He reached into the crate with both hands and carefully took out the model ship he was working on, holding his breath like a tinkerer carrying an explosive device.

Just then, we heard a crash so loud that it sounded like the craftstead was under attack.

“Woah!”

Surprised by the sound, Phil dropped his ship. Acting on instinct, I sprinted across the workshop and dove at it, missing it with my outstretched arms only for the ship to land on my back.

“My ship! My ship!”

Phil rushed over and picked it up, carefully cradling it to his chest. Mercifully, landing on my back seemed to have cushioned its fall enough to stop it from breaking. You’d think it was a puppy I had just saved from the jaws of a lion, the way he cooed over it. Placing it gently down on the workbench, he said, “Thanks, Lewis. That would have been three weeks of work smashed like an egg under a horse’s hoof.”

“They sure don’t make ships like they used to.”

“Very funny,” said Phil. “But really, thank you.”

I got to my feet and dusted off my shirt and trousers. “Don’t mention it.”

“We ought to speak to Cooper about this. I know it’s not my place. I’m only renting space here. But this noise…it’s not conducive to model making at all.”

“It won’t be forever,” I said. “As soon as Janey’s store is built, the craftstead will be back to normal.”

“All the same. Bill Flueitt’s retiring, you know.”

“Bill Flueitt…oh! The tailor,” I said.

“I have half a mind to see if I can lease out his building. But then, it’s next to Paisley’s store. She won’t want her old head of house breathing down her neck all day.”

“Paisley loves you, Phil. You’re practically part of her family.”

Phil seemed to blush, though most of the reddening of his cheeks was hidden beneath his beard, which was growing more wild and more impressive by the day. “Oh, come off it. I was an employee, no more than that.”

“That’s not how Paisley and Jace see it.”

As I headed back to the refreshment corner, I thought about the tailor shop next to Paisley’s store. A mole made of ideas was burrowing into the rich soil in my mind. I began to imagine myself walking down the steep hill from the craftstead first thing in the morning and heading into Sunhampton. Strolling through Coiner’s Way as the merchants swept their stoops and flipped their signs from ‘closed’ to ‘open.’ Could I be one of them, perhaps? I assumed that Mr. Flueitt’s tailor shop had a storefront for customers and a workshop at the back. That would work for me. Hmm. This was definitely an idea that needed thinking about.

I poured hot water into both mugs of coffee, before adding milk to mine and two sugars to Phil’s. I gave each mug three stirs before tapping the spoon on the lip of the mug – this ritual was my own, verified alchemic way of creating the perfect brew – and then carried both drinks across the workshop.

“Here’s your coffee,” I said.

“Thanks. Just place it down there next to the rigging, please.”

With Phil inspecting his galleon for damage and the noise from the yard abating, I got back to work on my notebooks. I had my three miode types ready, so all that remained was for me to enchant them.

After activating my Enchant ability, I had a little time to wait while it completed. I decided to use this by settling a score or two. Or, at least, restoring beverage related parity to the workshop.

“You didn’t mark it in your book,” I told Phil.

“Mark it?”

“The coffee I made. You didn’t write it in your ledger.”

“Oh,” he said, reaching for his little black book. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Sure you did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just wondering how many coffees I’ve made that didn’t get recorded. Maybe I didn’t have a hot beverage debt after all, and you’ve been playing me for a fool all this time.”

“Are you accusing me of corruption?” he said.

“Maybe I am Phil. Maybe I am. I’m going to keep my eye on you.”

Enchantment complete!

Artificed item created: Notebooks of mirroring

The token text declaring the completion of my work took precedence over any possible brew related conspiracy, so I turned my attention to it and read the text a couple of times.

Ah, now this sounded more like it. I was optimistic for the notebooks, but I needed to test them to make sure the effect was exactly what I wanted. Picking one up, I waited for Phil to take a pause from his model making. Where possible, I tried to never interrupt him when he looked like he was in deep concentration. If he’d tapped me on the shoulder while I was wearing artificer’s goggles and placing miodes, I wouldn’t have been too happy.

“Hey, Phil. About this whole hot beverage corruption thing. I’ve found a way for you to repay your debt to society.”

He gave me an amused stare. “Oh?”

“Here. Just hold this and keep your eye on the page.”

I took one notebook outside the workshop. Nearby in the yard, the team of builders was taking a break, sitting on the back of the cart they’d used to transport their tools and materials here, and drinking hot teas that Janey had made for them. One of them gave me a slight nod, but the others – another builder and the team’s supervisor, Stacey Logan – ignored me.

Holding not only my breath but the artificed notebook, I pressed a pen against the blank page. Unsure what to write as a test, I settled for, ‘Phil Brownhill lies about how many coffees he makes.’ All too aware I was smiling at my own joke, and fully appreciating the lack of sophistication in such behavior, I headed back inside the workshop.

There, I found Phil leaning back against his bench, notebook in hand, a grin on his face. “Very funny.”

“So it worked?”

“Words started writing themselves on the notebook, if that’s what you mean, yes.”

“Woo hoo! So that’s how I do it. Now, I just need to make six pairs of them, like Spruce asked for.”

Finishing the rest of the notebooks should have taken me just that afternoon, and possibly a few hours into the evening. After creating the third pair, however, I ran out of reflective miodes, which necessitated a trip to Steve’s Spell Scroll shop in Larking.

Larking was a small village not far from Sunhampton. Home to a hundred people at most, the village nonetheless attracted more than its share of tourists throughout the year thanks to its many oddities. There was the howling tree, a small elm which was said to scream at night even when there was no wind in the air to blame it on. Though, this phenomenon suddenly stopped when Mae Bruce and her four cats moved out of the village. There was also the Feathered Goose, supposedly the most haunted tavern in Easterly.

Finally, it was home to Steve’s Spell Scroll Shop. The shop was strange not because it sold magic, but because it was leaning to the right, like a crooked tooth ready to fall out. Steve had paid builders and artificers to make it safe, but he had decided to let it stay leaning over since this proved to be a great draw for business.

I opened the door and found Steve sitting behind the counter building a huge house out of playing cards. Steve, one of Master Cooper’s oldest suppliers, looked younger every time I saw him thanks to his dedication to trying out alchemic face peels and skin creams. The guy was in his seventies, but with his alchemic regime he would probably look even younger than me one day.

“Close the door! Close the door!” he yelled.

I did so, taking care not to shut it fast or forcefully and thus cause a breeze in the shop. Unlike the building we were in, Steve’s house of cards looked quite straight and stable.

“Hey, Steve.”

“Ah, if it isn’t Jack’s apprentice,” he said.

I wasn’t an apprentice, of course. I wasn’t even a novice anymore; I had managed to earn the initiate rank. But since I had begun my artificery career under Master Cooper, crafter’s culture dictated that I would forever be known as ‘Jack’s apprentice.’

“How’s business?” I asked.

“Slow.”

“I’m hearing that a lot lately.”

“Well, I own the building, and I don’t have any debts. I live modestly, if you don’t include my alchemic creams. A quiet spell of business won’t kill me. In fact, it’s nice to have a break from time to time. Here for anything in particular?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was looking for-”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find it.”

Realizing that Steve had no intention of helping me find the spell scrolls that I needed, I turned my attention to the contents of his shop, where shelf upon shelf held hundreds of rolled up spell scrolls, each with a little card tag attached to them. Some scrolls – such as the Scroll of Great Inferno, for instance, were dangerous, and Steve would only sell them to people with a novice or above crafting token. Maybe it was a little egotistical, but I was proud that I owned a token of sufficient rank that I could buy a scroll that would cast a huge ball of flames.

“I heard you’re an initiate now, are you?” Steve asked me while I browsed the scrolls.

I didn’t even try to hide or downplay another touch of pride I felt when I heard him use the word ‘initiate’.

“Sure am.”

“Excellent. Well done, Lewis. I remember when you came in here as an apprentice, looking all lost and confused at all the scrolls like they were written in ancient Algeranbic.”

“That’s not quite how I remember it.”

“Well, the memory plays tricks. Get to my age and you’ll understand. It’s less a record of events and more an abstract artist’s interpretation of them. I’m seventy-two, you know.”

Steve never tired of telling people his real age, despite his efforts to hide it in his appearance. Most people in Easterly were probably aware of Steve’s age by now, even if they had never met him. I suppose it was the gulf between his age and his looks that made him so proud; he had fewer wrinkles than most forty-year-olds, yet could reasonably assume he had twenty years of seniority of many folks he passed in the street.

“Anything new with old Jack?” asked Steve.

“Janey Morgan moved into the craftstead at last.”

After carefully placing a new playing card on his card house, Steve nodded. “Jack sent me an invitation to their wedding. I was away, damn and darn it. Business trip. Once a year I go to the spell scroll exhibition in The Cove and buy all my stock.”

“That’s a shame,” I said. “It was a great day.”

Steve leaned forward on the counter. “How is married life treating old Cooper, then? Are they talking about divorce yet?”

I laughed. “We could start a betting pool. See who can guess the divorce date.”

“And for a bonus, we can guess the reason. My bet’s on Janey getting sick of his grouchiness.”

“He’s actually doing well,” I said. “Never better, in fact. She has him eating two poached eggs or a bowl of porridge and berries for breakfast. She doesn’t make them for him, or anything. She says he’s not his maid. But all the same, she’s making him stick to the diet Healer Brown gave him. At lunchtime, they go for a walk. Janey even made some kind of alchemic powder that he can stir into his ale to make it…healthier? Have fewer calories? I don’t know. Either way, he complains about it ruining the taste but at least he can still drink beer.”

“It’s not her job to nurse the damned man. He just needs to take better care of himself.”

I nodded. “She told him that, too. She’s helping him get started in better habits, but after that, it’s all on him. She said ‘If you fall back into your old ways and die, Cooper, I’ll have the craftstead and all your gold to comfort me.’”

Smiling, Steve said, “She never has spared her words. I always liked Janey. What about you, Lewis?”

“Yeah, I like her a lot. She taught me Simple Alchemy. We have breakfast together sometimes when Cooper sleeps in late.”

“No, I mean what about your work? You’re an initiate now. The next step is adept, and that’s when many folks start thinking about flying the nest. I waited until journeyman before I left my master, old Penelope Tryer. But my brother, James, left his master when he was just an adept.”

The question caught me off guard. I had come here for a few scrolls, not to think about my entire future. In fact, I had rarely given much thought to where my path was heading, instead focusing on one footstep after another. Level up my next skill, finish my next project.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess I haven’t thought about it yet.”

Chapter 4

After returning home with the scrolls I needed, it wasn’t long until I had disenchanted them ready for use in the notebooks. By now it was evening, and though I liked to work in the workshop when it was late– there was nothing cozier than a lamp-lit workshop on a dark night, with the forge giving off gentle heat and a wolfhound snoozing by my feet – today, I felt strangely tired.

I wondered if it was my conversation with Steve. Sometimes, the most chance conversations can take root deep in your mind, clinging there and growing unnoticed in the dark, until soon they are so big you finally become aware of their existence and need to do something about them. Only, by then, they’ve grown too large to be tackled just by pulling them out by force.

Had I been thinking about my future before now, I wondered, and Steve had merely brought my attention to it? I know that I had always pondered it when I traveled Easterly with my mother and the Five Fiends. Everyone had just assumed I would be an actor like my mother. I had gotten swept up in that assumption, too, but had I ever, truly seen myself doing that? One thing I was certain about right now was that my future lay in artificery. Where that path would go I didn’t know, but I was happy to walk it.

That night, eight of us gathered around the dining table in the main house kitchen. Though the kitchen was rather small, the table had an extendable compartment that could be used or hidden away with the pull of a lever, turning it from a four-place table to a ten-place one, and back again. Cooper had designed it.

Joining us, Paisley, Jace, and Phil had walked up the steep hill from their manor and to the craftstead. Phil was still living there, but he was now paying rent on the room he occupied under his former title of ‘head of house’ of the manor. Jace, despite his business acumen, wouldn’t have charged him, but Phil insisted.

Jester, my friend who had taken ownership of his deceased aunt’s cottage and set up a freelance accounting business in Sunhampton, had taken a rare evening away from his work to enjoy some actual, warm food. Usually he existed on pastries from the Sunny Café and sugary baked treats from the Rolls Dough bakery.

I was glad to see him tonight. As a workaholic starting a new business, we were all a little concerned about how pasty and thin he was looking. But then, we all got a little absorbed in our professions from time to time. When Paisley got a new idea for a fresh line of merchandise, we might not see her for days. Similarly, Janey Morgan could get so absorbed in her alchemic endeavors that she’d forget to have dinner. When that happened, it was Cooper’s turn to play the responsible partner and remind her to eat, and he took great pleasure in climbing onto the saddle of that particular high horse.

Completing our company for the evening there were Janey, Cooper, Chris, and me. Even with a bigger table it made for cramped seating, and it was hard to think that there was a time when Cooper and I sat alone at a four-seater table, often eating in silence except for Cooper’s occasional grumblings.

The four of us who lived here in the craftstead had taken it in turns to provide courses for tonight’s meal. I had made the starter – four loaves of fragrant, fresh garlic bread- while Chris had taken care of the main, and Janey the dessert. Tonight, Cooper was on drinks duties, and he had supplied a half-barrel of Golden Goose ale from the King’s Head, three bottles of assorted cordials from Paisley’s shop, and two bottles of cider for Jester, who always chose the apple-based drink over beer.

Time whiled away easily like one of Phil’s model ships carried on a gentle sea of tasty food and pleasant conversation. Paisley and Janey compared notes on the cordials she’d brought, while Cooper told Jace, Chris, and me a story about how he’d once got trapped in the cellar of a haunted tavern, entertaining himself by tapping the various beer barrels contained within, only to blame it later, when he was released, on the ghost. Across the table, Phil and Jester talked about their respective new businesses, and how their enterprises gave them mixed feelings of nervousness and joy.

“When I wake up in the morning and have my first coffee I’m ready for anything. I have fifty ideas, and I want to do them all at once. By the time I go to sleep in the evening, it’s like something’s sapped my soul,” said Phil. “I feel listless. Like it might be better to give this all up.”

“Phillip…” said Jace, who must have had one ear on Cooper’s story, and the other on his former head of house.

“I know, Mr. Porter. I know. New businesses take time.”

Soon, the starter and main courses were gone. Jester had finished one and a half of his cider bottles, measuring out each sip with the mathematical precision you’d expect from an accountant so that the two bottles would last exactly until nine o’clock. Chris drained the last of the beer barrel by filling up the huge, two-beer tankard that he’d bought for himself from a novelty gift shop. It was shaped like a hollowed out skull replete with horns, and he thought it made him look like a warrior. Taking a swig from his beer, he burped. Paisley caught his eye, then laughed.

“Jester,” said Jace, looking at my friend from across the table. “How’s the accountancy game going?”

I felt for Jester right then. Jace Porter was a master ranked merchant. Anything he asked about business was always born from good natured interest, but nobody would like to be questioned by a master in front of six other people.

Jester, however, had been looking forward to tonight. We’d talked about it when I called into the office he rented on Coiner’s Way earlier that day. Tonight’s dinner represented an opportunity for Jester…if he played it right.

“I’m seeing green shoots, Mr. Porter. Lots of them. Spruce Wilkinson is very happy with the work I did on his books,” said Jester. “And, of course, Mr. Cooper here had no complaints. I just need to keep watering the garden and it will flourish soon enough.”

“He was very thorough,” agreed Cooper. “He did a great job.”

“I also have many, many testimonials from clients I worked for while I was employed at Jenkins and Clyde Accountancy, in Hattersdale.”

Jace’s face looked as if someone had tasked a master sculptor with depicting the word ‘poise.’ Everything about his manner and the way he held himself was deliberate, from his groomed beard to his wrinkles which seemed as if each one didn’t grow naturally through age but instead were directed to exactly where Jace wanted them. Though business was, by its very nature, a matter of chance and he had made his fortune taking risks, nothing about Jace Porter spoke of randomness or unpredictability.

“Oh?” he said. “That’s good to hear.”

Chris nudged Paisley in the least subtle way possible.

“Err…yes, Uncle,” Paisley said. “Jester’s work is master level, if you ask me. Even if he isn’t actually ranked ‘master’. At the same time, his prices are equivalent to an adept’s. It’s a real bargain.”

“He earned the adept ranking just last week, actually,” added Chris.

Jester gave them a ‘thank you’ look that came with a complementary smile. I was less than impressed by their acting. We’d agreed that we would talk Jester up to Jace during the meal, but I should have passed on some of the acting wisdom I’d learned from the Five Fiends to them. If this was a stage play, they’d have been pelted with tomatoes.

“Tell me, Mr. Porter,” said Jester, “How many businesses is that you have now?”

“Sole ownership, or invested interests? Too many to count.”

“Really? Too many to count?” asked Jester.

“Mr. Goodfellow keeps track of all that. He does my books.”

“Accounting is all smoke and clouds,” said Janey. “No offense, young Jester. But profits, expenditure. It’s all just a way of getting us to pay tax. The more time I spend worrying about numbers, the less time I can spend brewing potions. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

Cooper shook his head. “No, Janey, my darling. My figures used to be a mess, and Jester straightened them out. When he did, I felt like someone had loosened a knot inside me that I didn’t even know I had. It’s a relief, knowing all my affairs are shipshape.”

“Shipshape,” said Phil, perking up. “A phrase that originated in Casterfree Port, I think. A reference to the necessity for routine and order among seafarers, and the high level of maintenance a sea vessel requires.”

Janey looked at her husband, then at Jester, then back again. “Hmm. You did seem a little less…tense after Jester here did some work for you.”

“It’s just one less thing to worry about, having a competent accountant working for me.”

Jester, ignoring the conversation around him and sensing a weakness in Jace’s armor, pressed on with his lance at the ready. “Mr. Porter, do you mean that Mr. Goodfellow doesn’t send you quarterly reports detailing exactly how many business interests you currently have?”

Jace took a sip of ale from his mug. “My focus is on the acquisition of businesses. Just like Cooper here might finish a project and then store it away, so do I with new businesses. I start them or acquire them, iron out any problems, make them as efficient as possible, then trust Goodfellow to tell me how much gold I’m making every quarter. I don’t get bogged down in the details of individual businesses; sometimes a shop might take three years to become profitable. Patience is the key. One must look at the bigger picture.”

Chris got up to serve dessert. Opening the oven, he let out a whoosh of hot air that I felt on my cheeks. With Paisley’s help, he had soon provided the whole table with a bowl each of apple pie covered in hot custard.

“The storefront is looking good,” said Paisley, holding her spoon like a knife and stabbing the pie with it, before jamming a spoonful into her mouth.

“Another few weeks, then Janey will be up and running supplying all of Sunhampton’s alchemic needs,” said Cooper. “After that, of course, we’re remodeling the house.”

This was news to me. “Remodeling the house?”

“Yes. We talked about it last week, lad.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Oh. Then Janey and I talked about it. This old place has barely changed since my great and then some grandfather built it. It’s time we spruced it up a little.”

Janey said, “I think it’s perfect the way it is. Quaint.”

“Quaint, my arse. It’s a ruin, that’s what it is. No, we’ll finish your alchemy storefront, then your workshop. Then we’ll have Stacey Logan and her crew work on the house, and when they’re done with that, they can build the artificery storefront, too. I swear, I’m putting Stacey’s kids through college.”

“So…Mr. Porter,” said Jester, in a voice that betrayed a little more anxiety than before. “Have you ever thought about switching from Mr. Goodfellow to someone more local, maybe?”

Jace Porter looked at Jester for a good, long while, before finally saying, “I can’t say that I have. He’s a good accountant, and a good fellow. Not many people boast of such an apt name. I couldn’t look elsewhere.”

It took me most of the next morning and afternoon to finish artificing the six pairs of notebooks for Spruce Wilkinson. This took me thirteen attempts due to the unpredictability of artificery, and resulted in me quickly burning through my miode supplies. Finally, though, I had a neat pile of twelve notebooks stacked on the workbench and ready for delivery.

I felt a glow of satisfaction at having finished a job, but it came with a deep ache. Working with three-miode artificery for two days straight had been pretty harsh on my crafting stamina. Right now I felt a tiredness in my artificer’s core, a kind of inner breathlessness akin to how a runner would feel after a sprint. Only it wasn’t my body that was tired but my inner crafter, that thing inside me which interacted with the token bracelet on my wrist and allowed me to use my abilities.

There were upsides to it, though. Not only had I fulfilled a difficult customer request and ensured that Master Cooper would entrust me with more, but I had leveled my Enchant ability under my Intermediate Enchantment skill tree from thirteen to fourteen.

Both my Enchantment and Disenchantment skill trees were now ranked as Intermediate, which was how I’d earned my overall artificery rank of ‘initiate.’ This meant, however, that my levels ups in these skill trees were slowing down. This wasn’t good news.

It wasn’t all bad, though. To earn the ‘adept’ artificer ranking, I needed to have all five skill trees ranked as ‘intermediate,’ rather than ‘simple’. This meant I needed to level my Simple Craft and Forge, Simple Tinkering, and Simple Alchemy skill trees. Since these were the lowest of my skills, they would be easier to level up.

I guessed that was what I should have said to Steve in his shop when he asked me about my future. I didn’t have some grand life plan that would take decades to complete. Right now, I was just focused on climbing the ledge up to the next stage in artificeric greatness: earning the adept ranking.

“Morning, young Initiate Cooper.”

Master Cooper walked into the workshop holding a plate with battered fish, fried potatoes, mushy peas, and a slice of lemon on it. The smell of the battered fish and the salt and vinegar it was seasoned in opened the door to a hunger that I hadn’t heard knocking, until now. For a second, Cooper passed right under the glow of an artificed lamp and I saw how much better his complexion was these days. He used to be blotchy and red, but drinking lots of water and having a better sleep schedule had worked on his face with an almost alchemic touch. Steve would have been envious of Cooper accomplishing this change without alchemic creams.

“You missed dinner,” Cooper said, placing the plate down on the workbench and giving it a gentle shove toward me.

“Sorry. I got caught up with this,” I said.

“That’s alright. I’m not going to object to some time alone with my lovely wife without you and Chris talking rubbish.”

“Chris wasn’t there either?” I asked, picking up a fried potato and shoving it into my mouth.

“He’s at Paisley’s. Jace invited him over,” said Cooper. “Can’t have you eating with your hands like an animal.”

Cooper handed me a fork, and I immediately started the job of emptying the plate. Meanwhile, Cooper inspected the pile of notebooks just to my right. I found myself both holding my breath for his response, yet having a mouthful of unchewed fish at the same time. Realizing how silly it was to hang on to his praise like that, I concentrated on my dinner.

“These notebooks are all paired,” said Cooper.

“Yegh theygh argh,” I said, chewing.

“You really are a disgusting creature.”

I swallowed, then laughed. “Says the man who only had one fork and knife in his whole house until I came to live here.”

“Then perhaps you and I are two peas in a pod. Now, the craftsmanship on these notebooks is very good, Lewis,” began Master Cooper.

This wasn’t how Cooper used to deliver evaluations of my work to me. Janey, who used to take on alchemy students from time to time, had recently been educating him in the compliment-criticism-compliment form of giving feedback on people’s work. I think Cooper was finding it just as hard to use that style of evaluation as I was having difficulty adjusting to the novelty of it. I was used to harsh but fair criticism from him.

He continued. “That said, I’m concerned. You appear to have made six separate pairs of notebooks.”

“I know it’s more efficient to create one notebook that has an artificeric link to all of the others, but that would have needed a fourth miode type, and I can’t use four miodes with any kind of accuracy.”

“But this isn’t efficient, Lewis.”

“I know. But a fourth miode-”

“Do you think I would assign you a customer request that I know you can’t fulfill? I might be getting on in years, but my brain’s still as sharp as a shark’s tooth. I know what an initiate can and can’t do.”

“Six pairs of notebooks was the best solution.”

Cooper shook his head. “No, it was the most convenient solution for you so you could finish the job and pat yourself on the back. It’s not so handy for Spruce, though, is it? If he accepts the notebooks, he’ll have to have six separate notebooks lying around in his café. Then, he’ll have to keep checking all six to see if any of the customers with the other side of the pairs has made an order. That’s not efficient at all, not by a long shot. What you’ve done, Lewis, is walk ahead of the customer on a path. There’s a tree branch in front of you, and you’ve moved it out of the way so it doesn’t hit you, only to then let it spring back and whack the customer in the face.”

A rush of conflicting emotions hit me, sudden and strong. Anger was one, for sure. It almost made me lash out verbally, to tell Cooper that he was being harsh. But I held it in and counted to ten in my head, and after reaching ten, I realized the anger wasn’t the sickness in my head but a symptom, and my real malady was insecurity.

I wanted Cooper to trust me with the tougher jobs, and now that he has, I don’t know that I’ll measure up, I thought.

Hearing Cooper take my work to task like that was confirmation that I was right to be worried. Even worse, Cooper was correct in what he had said. It would have made me feel better if his harshness were unjust, because then I didn’t have to blame my own craftsmanship. But he was speaking the truth. I had taken the easiest artificeric means of getting the job done, and that was the wrong way to do it. Sometimes the best solution was the simplest, but it all depended on how ‘best’ was measured. In this case, the best solution was one that suited Spruce Wilkinson’s needs.

“I’ll re-think the project,” I said.

Evidently remembering that the compliment-criticism-compliment sandwich needed two slices of bread, Cooper said in a kind tone, “For what it’s worth, the notebooks are enchanted very well. Very precise work, and barely a miode out of place.”

I breathed out the last huff of my anger, which had faded now that I knew its source. “If I scrap all of this and start again, we’re going to end up making a loss on this project, Master Cooper.”

“Scrap all of it? Have you ever known me to scrap a project?”

That was true. Until Janey had moved in, the spare rooms of Cooper’s house had been filled with all kinds of junk, past projects, and random things Cooper had collected over the years. He had rarely ever thrown any of it away.

I always thought this was one of the symptoms of excessive hoarding, but it actually turned out to be useful. When he finally decided to clear the rooms, Cooper had allowed me to disenchant all of his artificed past projects. This, in turn, had greatly helped me level my Disenchant ability.

“We can’t start piling stuff up in the spare rooms again,” I said. “Otherwise there was no point in going to the trouble of clearing them out. But you’re right; I won’t disenchant the notebooks and scrap them. Maybe I can sell them in pairs. Turn a profit on them.”

“Exactly. The notebooks aren’t exactly fit for the purpose you made them. Fine, so what? That doesn’t mean they aren’t fit for any purpose at all. I bet young Paisley could have these sold before lunchtime.”

Chapter 5

The next day, Stacey Logan and her builders were back in the craftstead yard, hammering rocks, yelling instructions to each other, and dragging a cart filled with rubble back and forth. Call me cynical, but I suspected Stacey had purposefully bought a cart with the whiniest wheels in the whole of Easterly. It sounded like a rooster with a sore throat trying to announce ‘good morning’ to the world.

Chris had already headed off to work, and Cooper and Janey had gone for a hike across Trecher’s Pass. The pair had wisely decided to take the time when Stacey was working in the yard as a vacation from artificery and alchemy, which was the benefit of both being ranked as masters, I guessed. I couldn’t afford such a break, not that I begrudged them a little time together. On the contrary, it made me glad to see Cooper so happy these days.

Soon after I went into the workshop to start my day, Phil Brownhill arrived, supplementing his nod and “Morning, Lewis,” with an offer to make the coffees. I accepted, and after thanking him for the hot drink I was happy to see that his little black book didn’t leave his pocket. It seemed that the brew debt book was finally banished.

“Loud outside, huh?” I said.

Phil paused as if to evaluate the noise level before answering. “It is. But the work must be done, sure enough, and there’s no hammer in the world that doesn’t make a sound.”

“Isn’t there?” I said, the cogs of my mind going clank-clank-clank as both my coffee and Phil’s answer acted like tinkerer’s oil and got them working. Before a solution could properly arrive, however, Phil pulled out a stool, sank into it, and faced me.

“The only thing that annoys me about it is the poor planning,” he said. “When I was head of Jace Porter’s house, I organized more work on the manor than I can even remember. Not a single time did I disturb Mr. Porter’s day. Everything was arranged around his schedule so that it would be completed while he was gone, and I would hire a construction company with a big enough crew to finish it in one or two days of hard graft.”

“Master Cooper likes Stacey Logan’s work,” I said. “If there’s a job he can’t do himself, then she’s the only one he’ll consider hiring.”

“Well, I may ask him for a discount on my workshop fee.”

Though I hadn’t even started work on my project yet today, I nonetheless headed outside into the cold, early morning air. There was the faintest snap of frost spread out on the stones in the yard, as well as on the barks of the elm and oak trees surrounding the craftstead. The few remaining leaves in the trees were dark brown and dark red and just about ready to fall, and though the sun shone down without clouds to hinder it, it was struggling to send enough heat to battle the oncoming ice.

“Watch your toes, mate!”

I stepped back just in time to avoid my feet getting run over by the cart, which Potter Peters and Simon Faxibell were pushing. They’d piled up loose rock debris of all shapes and sizes from the boulders they were uprooting, and they were taking it across the yard to a pile over by the gates. The cart whined and screeched with every revolution of its wheels. Watching Potter and Simon, I couldn’t believe that the noise didn’t bother them. Either they’d just gotten used to it, or its incessant noise had already made them half-deaf.

It seemed ludicrous to me that a team of respected builders would tolerate such an annoyance, but I wasn’t going to for much longer. Following them across the yard, I asked them if they needed a hand unloading the cart.

“Customers don’t usually offer to help,” said Simon.

“I’m not your customer, exactly. That’s Master Cooper.”

“No danger of him helping, is there?” said Potter with a laugh.

Removing the rocks from the back of the cart was harder, more physical work than I was used to, and I soon found my armpits and back getting damp with sweat. I’d always thought that artificery was labor intensive, but it would have felt like a leisurely break to Potter and Simon.

With the rocks removed, the pair took a quick break beside the cart. They were a couple of years older than me and had studied for their building apprenticeships under Stacey. They were a regular fixture in the King’s Head tavern most evenings after they finished work, where they were the current undisputed tag team champions of the Sunhampton bi-monthly darts tournament. When he wasn’t building or drinking, Simon could usually be found in the town library. Potter’s mother lived in Little Flitwick, and he often took a cart ride there to see her when he had free time.

“Thanks, mate,” said Simon. “Always appreciate an extra pair of hands.”

“No problem. Do you mind if I take a look at your cart?”

“Thinking of buying one, are ya?” asked Potter.

“It’s the noise it makes. The whining. I feel like if I don’t do something about it, I’m going to start hearing it in my dreams.”

“You’re a crafter like old Cooper, are you?”

“An artificer,” I said. “But the Repair ability is part of my Simple Craft and Forge skill tree.”

“Then be our guest. Make it snappy, though. If Boss sees us sitting around for too long, she won’t be happy.”

Kneeling beside what I suspected was the faulty cartwheel, I reached into my pocket and took out my Simple Craft skill tree token. Then, I popped out the Intermediate Enchantment token from my token bracelet, and placed the Craft one in the empty slot.

That done, I activated the Repair ability on my Simple Craft and Forge skill tree. The token in the bracelet warmed slightly, and little webs of golden light left my wrist and reached out for the cart, coiling around it like golden rope before quickly melting away, leaving no trace of their presence.

Repair failed!

Suddenly, I was all too aware that Simon and Potter were watching me. I wished I hadn’t acted so confident about my ability to fix the wheel. It should have been an easy repair job, sure, but my Repair ability was only level two. That was the problem; leveling some of my other skills fairly high had made me overconfident. It was as though I had spent a year lifting weights to build up my biceps so they rivaled the bulkiest barbarian, and this somehow gave me the confidence to try running a marathon, despite different muscles being involved.

Undeterred, I tried again, only to have the same thing happen. I made three further attempts, before giving up. Deciding to just swallow the frog of social embarrassment, I quickly got to my feet.

“Looks like I was a little hasty.”

“Can’t fix it, mate?” said Simon.

“It’s beyond my abilities, right now,” I admitted.

“Well, not to worry. I’ll take it to old Jessie Lakers at the cart and wagon repair stand in Little Flitwick, next time I’m visiting my ma,” said Potter.

It didn’t feel like one of the highlights of my life, standing there in the chilly air, yet feeling my face heat up and redden with defeat. That would have seemed like an overreaction to some people. Everyone failed every once in a while. Failure was the mortar that secured the bricks of skill and experience together. But though I was trying to foster a warm acquaintance with failure, we weren’t buddies yet.

Watching Simon and Potter take their cart across the yard again and over to the huge stone boulders that they were breaking down, inspiration hit me. Strolling across the yard, I joined them by the stones. Simon was holding a sledgehammer that as long as his entire arm, while Potter had a small yet sturdy hammer. I guessed their method was for Simon to give the boulders a few pulverizing blows, and then Potter would smash off any loose pieces.

Seeing me approach, Simon elbowed Potter, then spoke to me. “Can’t get enough of building? Thinking of changing your class, maybe?”

“Actually, I was wondering something.”

“Well wonder it quickly, mate, because if Boss catches us gabbing she’ll dock our wages.”

“When I do some alchemy, I wear alchemical gloves and goggles to protect me from accidents. You know, acid splashes and things like that. But you guys don’t have any safety equipment.”

“We do when the work’s dangerous,” said Potter.

“Supposing a little stone chip hit your eye?” I said.

Potter looked at Simon. “He’s got a point. Maybe that’s why Boss keeps telling us to wear our goggles.”

“We ought to stop just putting them on only when we hear her coming, oughtn’t we, mate?”

Simon and Potter weren’t stupid, not by a long shot, though, they were acting stupidly in this specific instance. There was a subtle yet real difference. What they were guilty of was a crime committed by crafters all across Easterly: overconfidence. They had simply become too comfortable with their skills, and because they hadn’t had an accident yet, they had started to think that accidents just wouldn’t ever happen to them. This was something that happened to everyone who had a vocational class. My friend Jester sometimes got overconfident in his accounting and neglected to recheck his work. Very rarely, I would enchant miodes without making sure my work surface was free from water, which was the artificery equivalent of smoking a pipe while standing next to a barrel of flammable oil. Sometimes we got away with it, sometimes not. It was human nature that the better we got at our jobs, the worse we became at predicting our own mistakes.

“Exactly, you should start wearing your goggles,” I said. “And if you worry about stone chips hurting your eyes, why don’t you worry about the sound of your hammers damaging your ears? Your hammers are very, very loud. You might think to yourself ‘Oh, it’s only one job.’ But think of all the noise you’re exposed to day after day. It’ll add up. If you don’t do something now, you’ll end up like Catter Berry in the King’s Head. Always shouting at his brother because he can’t hear the volume of his own voice.”

This seemed to provoke a reaction in Potter and Simon. Things like hearing loss seemed like ‘old people’s problems,’ something that a twenty-odd-year-old shouldn’t worry about. But mentioning Catter Berry turned that abstract malady into something actual, a thing represented in the form of someone that they knew. Catter was famous for shouting conversations that should have been private. Once, I heard him yell at the top of his lungs, “Healer Brown says I’m all blocked up! But a few of his tonics should get me flowing like a well-oiled pump again!”

Simon rested his hand on his sledgehammer, then leaned into it and used it to support his body. “What are you suggesting?”

“I can add some artificery to your hammers,” I said. “Mute their sounds.”

“No, I don’t think so. That’d be strange, using my tools and no sound coming out. Like firing an arrow and not hearing your bow make a twanging sound. If everything was completely silent, it’d be like working in a library.”

“We’re open to the idea of saving our eardrums,” said Potter. “Just…if you have another way of doing it?”

I had an ulterior motive, of course. The reason I wanted to add artificery to their tools was less about their safety and more so that I would be spared the incessant crashes and thuds that they made all day. But Potter had a point; I wouldn’t like it if my artificery tools were completely silent. I needed a different solution than just enchanting miodes into their hammers.

Now, a more practically minded person might say, “Why not just get some earplugs?” That was a simple, cheap solution. A hard one to argue with, actually. But I was an initiate artificer, and it was part of my remit to do things the hard way if there was even a slim chance it would help me level my skills. Nobody ever leveled their Simple Craft and Forge skill by buying some earplugs at Joe Phillips’ general store, did they? Thus, I often found myself walking the path strewn with overgrowth and vines, instead of taking the easier, clearer route.

In the workshop, I began opening the closets and drawers that lined three sides of the room. Many contained various tools, nails, screws, and other artificery odds and ends. There was an artificeric clamp for keeping something still while you were enchanting by hand, a bunch of scalpels so sharp they could cut open miodes, and about three dozen different types of hammers and screwdrivers.

“What are you doing?” asked Phil, in a polite tone that nevertheless suggested he was less interested in the answer, and more trying to subtly get me to continue my search more quietly.

“Just looking for some wood and glue,” I said. “I’ve decided to become a model ship maker. The best in Sunhampton.”

“Very funny,” said Phil. Then, he added, “…you’re not being serious, are you?”

“No, of course not.”

Finally, in the third from last closet, I found what I needed; an alembic, mortar and pestle, various different sized alchemist’s spoons, measuring jugs, pincers, gloves, and goggles. The goggles were old and cumbersome, lacking the comforts of newer, fancier ones that often boasted things like artificed frames that adjusted themselves to fit you snugly. I had my own alchemy equipment, of course. Janey had gifted me a fancy alembic and a few other alchemy tools after I finished studying under her, but they were in my bedroom. Specifically, in a box under my bed, if I remembered rightly. This made me feel a little neglectful of Janey’s gift to me but in my defense I hadn’t used alchemy in a while. This was a fact that Janey liked to remind me of. Maybe my work today would make her happy.

After a quick visit to the artificed bookshelf beside Cooper’s tool sharpening machine, I found a copy of ‘1001 Alchemy Recipes’ by Brad C Turner and Hessy Linklater. Flicking through it, I soon found out what alchemic concoction I needed, as well as the ingredients necessary to make it.

This necessitated a trip back to Cooper’s alchemy closet, where as well as alembics, bowls, and other equipment, he also had a modest collection of ingredients. I wasn’t sure if he had the exact ones that I needed, but I would just have to hope for the best. Janey Morgan would have every alchemical ingredient I could possibly imagine in her crates in the spare room, of course, but it felt presumptuous to raid her supplies. I’d just have to ask her the next time I saw her.

“Let’s see…what else have you got in here, Cooper?” I said, as I rummaged. Then, without even needing to turn around, I added, “Sorry, Phil.”

“Quite alright.”

After arranging the equipment, book, and ingredients on my workbench, it was time to begin. Just then, Phil breathed out a long sigh and then stood up and away from his ship, where he’d built half of the rigging. Turning around, he watched me arranging all the alchemical tools.

He did this quite often, despite his rigid rules on not disturbing each other. He was a hypocrite, actually, but I let him off because I liked him, despite everything. Sometimes, though, I felt like I was some kind of rare bird in a zoo when Phil was around. He was intensely curious about artificery and though he usually respected his own ‘silence when crafting’ rule, he liked to ask questions about what I was doing whenever possible.

“I haven’t seen you using these before,” he said.

“I don’t do much alchemy.”

“It’s one of your skill trees though, isn’t it?”

Nodding, I said, “It’s one of my least used ones, but yes. Still, I haven’t leveled it much, and this is a good opportunity. I’ll need all my skills to be intermediate if I want to become an adept ranked.”

“You’re using alchemy on the notebooks?”

“No, I’m going to do something about the noise,” I said.

“Oh. You’re still focused on that? I’ve tuned their sounds out, to be honest, Lewis. I can’t afford to waste my time worrying about it.”

“I’ve never been afraid of wasting time. Materials and miodes? That’s a different matter. Cooper doesn’t like me wasting those.”

Phil crossed his arms and stroked his bearded chin with his index finger and thumb in thought. “So your alchemic solution to the noise is…”

I tapped the cover of the ‘1001 Alchemic Recipes’ book. “A salve that you apply to the outside of your ear to dampen out sounds. The more salve you use, the longer it lasts, and the more sound it drowns out.”

“Oh.”

“When people say ‘oh’ like that, they usually have something they want to say, but they’re not sure if they should. Chris sounds exactly the same when I cook something he doesn’t like but he’s too polite to tell me.”

Phil shifted uncomfortably. “It’s just…well...it strikes me that a pair of earplugs would do the same job. They have them at the general store in town. Ms. Paisley used to snore like a hog in the summer, and Master Porter asked me to buy some. It would be much easier and take much less time than making this salve of yours.”

First, I mentally filed away the knowledge that Paisley snored like a hog for later use. Then I smiled, glad this was Phil’s only criticism of my little plan. Everything he had said was exactly right, and I knew that because I’d already reminded myself of just such a solution to the problem. The maxim of most crafters was that if you weren’t aiming to make something beautiful, then you should at least make it simple. I certainly wasn’t aiming to create anything beautiful today, but at the same time, I was choosing to ignore the maxim.

“I have to level my alchemy,” I said, “And projects that are actually needed and necessary always offer more experience than if you just practice an ability for the sake of it. It’s just a good excuse to solve a problem and learn some valuable experience, is all.”

“I do admire your focus on leveling, Lewis.”

I felt an inner glow at this praise from an unexpected source. “Thanks, Phil. Maybe it’s helped having you here, seeing how focused you are on your ships.”

This time, it was Phil’s turn to enjoy a compliment, which he betrayed with the hint of a smile. “Another coffee?” he asked.

“Sure, but it’s my turn.”

And so, my first piece of alchemy of the day was transforming water, coffee grounds, and milk into a delicious brew for me and Phil. With that done, I felt ready to begin a second alchemic project.

With the tools, ingredients, and my ability to hand, there was nothing left but to try making a tincture that the book named ‘Muting Salve.’

After a quick glance to make sure I had set my Simple Alchemy token in my token bracelet, I used my Create Tincture ability, then drummed my fingers impatiently on the workbench as I waited for it to complete.

As this was a simple salve with simple ingredients, it didn’t take long.

Alchemy failed!

Resting in the alchemy bowl was a black, oily mess that I wouldn’t have wanted to put anywhere near my face. I stared at it, seeing in its darkened depths my second failure of the day. My Repair ability had fallen at the first hurdle when I tried to fix the cart wheel, and now my Create Tincture ability was joining the party.

Some days just don’t go your way. It happens to us all, I suppose, and there’s not a person alive who doesn’t have the kind of morning where everything goes wrong. Today just wasn’t my day. I wouldn’t have been surprised to finish my cup of coffee only to find a dead spider at the bottom of it. Then, to walk outside and step onto a rake and have it hit me in the face.

I tried to create the Muting Salve twice more, using up not only some of my crafting stamina, but a decent amount of Cooper’s ingredients. Loathe to make another attempt and waste more chemicals and herbs, I took a second to consider where I was going wrong.

It isn’t an especially difficult salve, I thought. So that leaves…

On the workbench ahead of me, Phil sighed and set down his pair of tweezers. The fingers on his right hand, I noticed, were red and swollen. He blew on them and then rubbed them as if this would take the pain away.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“Fine, why?”

“Your hand.”

“Oh. I have arthritis. The beginnings of it, at least. It’s fine most of the year, but winter is when it plays up.”

“Arthritis?” I said.

“I know, I’m a little young for it. Lucky me, who’s just taken up a profession that involves minute hand movements and using tweezers that necessitate having my fingers in strange positions. No luck with the salve?”

“You know what they say. The fourth time’s the charm.”

“Honestly, why not just forget about the builders? You drown the sound out when you stop focusing on it all the time. Every second you spend on this takes you away from your work.”

I sighed. “You’re exactly right. You really are. Only, you don’t know me. This is sort of how I get. I won’t be able to think about anything else now until I’ve solved it.”

“Well, I might go to the Sunny Café for lunch. Do you want me to bring you anything back?”

“No, I’m too annoyed to eat. But thanks.”

“No problem,” said Phil. “If you change your mind…”

“Okay, I guess you could just bring me back a bacon sandwich. Bacon and sausage, with a side of fried potatoes. And onion rings. Oh, and one of those caramel flapjacks with the extra layer of chocolate. But that’s probably all I can manage right now until I figure this out.”

Chapter 6

Phil got his coat from the coat stand near the door, which was artificed with a minor drying effect for when it was raining. If you came in wearing a soggy garment, all you had to do was hang it up and the stand would have it mostly dry within thirty minutes. It also had the pleasant side effect of lending a warm glow to an already-warm coat, rather like putting your socks on the radiator for a while before you put them on. When we lived in the manor, that was something my mother used to do with my socks. Especially on chilly winter days. It was a cheap pleasure, sure, but nothing beat the feeling of toasty socks on a snowy morning.

Alone in the workshop, I leaned over my workbench and stared at the alchemy tools before me, determined to tame them to my wishes.

I knew that Phil was right. That a simple side errand was turning into a much bigger time sink than I had expected. But what I had told Phil was correct; practicing alchemy would level up my skills, but using alchemy on a project with a real-life use case would level them even faster. Besides, alchemy itself was not a side errand or a distraction at all - I couldn’t reach the adept level without earning the Intermediate Alchemy skill tree.

Apart from that, the more I thought about this project and about alchemy, the more I began to get a feeling, a kind of crafter’s instinct, that it might help me with my ordering system project. I didn’t know how, but I just had this inkling that I usually got while working on a difficult crafting problem.

The question right now was, why wasn’t my salve working?

All crafting relies on the Five Factors, I told myself, recalling Cooper’s early lessons to me. Skill of the crafter, quality of their tools, quality of materials, difficulty of the project, and random chance.

An honest assessment of myself and my salve project against the five factors wouldn’t cast me in a good light. My Simple Alchemy skill was pathetic, my tools were substandard, Cooper’s ingredients were dried out from having been stored away for too long, and random chance wasn’t my friend. The only thing I had going for me was that the project wasn’t the most difficult piece of alchemy.

Okay, then. I can’t do anything about random chance, so that leaves four factors to resolve. I better get to it.

First, I stopped being so lazy and left the workshop, crossed the yard, and headed into the main house, where I went upstairs to get the better quality alchemy tools that Janey had gifted to me way back when I first earned my Simple Alchemy skill tree. They weren’t under the bed where I thought I’d left them, and I got a sudden stab of panic when I remembered that we’d cleared away or sold a lot of the junk and other things in the craftstead. Had the tools mistakenly met such a fate?

“Oh. There they are.”

No, the tools were safe in their box, which I’d tucked in the bottom of my wardrobe, next to the fancy boots that Cooper got me for my last birthday, and which I was saving for special occasions.

Armed with better tools, I considered which of the five factors I could improve next. I couldn’t change the difficulty of the project, nor could I just improve my own skills with a click of my fingers. Random chance was not something to be meddled with, which left only one thing: the quality of the ingredients.

Luckily, I lived with an alchemy master who boasted maybe the greatest collection of powders, herbs, spices, essence extracts, and fungi in the whole of Easterly. Unluckily, however, Janey was out with Master Cooper, and I couldn’t just help myself to her things.

Soon, Phil arrived back from the Sunny Café. Before joining me in the workshop he stopped by the builders in the yard, where he handed out hot sandwiches to Stacey Logan, Potter Peters, and Simon Faxibell. Phil liked to talk to the builders whenever he got the chance. He had a natural way with them, thanks to organizing multiple projects on Jace Porter’s manor over the years. He knew special builder words such as ‘joist’ and ‘party wall’, which wasn’t a special section of the house where you tended to dance and drink beer, but a wall that ran along the boundary between two properties. Whether he used these terms in the correct context or not, I didn’t know, but the builders seemed to like him.

“Let’s see,” he said to them. “Beef with horseradish?”

“That’s mine!” said Simon Faxibell, but before he could snatch it, Phil pivoted to his right and moved the sandwich out of reach.

“Where are your manners?”

“Sorry. I mean, that’s my sandwich, Mr. Brownhill.”

“No, I’m not talking about that,” said Phil. “I mean your monetary manners. Gold first, sandwich later.”

“Oh. Right. Don’t write me down in the sandwich book, Mr. Brownhill. Potter, can you cover me for today? I left my coin belt at home.”

“Of course you did,” replied his friend. “Funny how often that happens. Fine, here you go, Mr. Brownhill. This should cover-”

It was then that Stacey Logan, who I’d already learned was an unusually quiet person when she wasn’t giving instructions to her workers, spoke up. “I’ll get these, Phil. Here you go. That should be enough. Can’t have my lads working on empty stomachs.”

“Thanks, Stacey!” said Potter.

“Yeah, cheers, Boss,” added Simon.

“Thank me by getting those boulders taken care of. You know how angsty Cooper gets.”

My own hunger was like a late night mugging in a darkened alley, tapping me on the shoulder and then taking me by surprise as it held me to ransom. The feeling in my stomach only increased as I watched Phil cross the yard, the sensation growing until, soon, I was ready to snatch the sandwich out of his hands just as Simon had tried to.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me a bundle of delicious smelling, wrapped parcels of food. “One bacon and sausage sandwich, a side of fried potatoes, onion rings, and a flapjack.”

“Thanks, Phil. How much was it?” I said, reaching into my trousers pockets, certain that I had a few gold coins in there amongst the scraps of paper, a screwdriver, and various crafting odds and ends I usually carried around with me.

“No, no. You get the next one.”

“Really? And you don’t want to write it in a food book, or anything?” I asked.

“What’s a lunch or two between friends?”

Bolstered by a hot lunch, and with his fingers given some time to recover, Phil soon got to work on the rigging on his ship. Taking a short break from alchemy, I opened my crafter’s notebook and flexed my mental muscles on the notebook problem for a while, trying to work out a solution which would allow Spruce Wilkinson to have one central notebook in his café, yet receive food orders from numerous places.

I wrote down ideas, crossed them out. I spoke my problem out loud and then, without even needing Phil to mime using a zipper, spoke under my breath. I paced, I stood still. I opened the book, closed it, and then opened it again, as if the action would shake ideas loose from it. Nothing came.

Why is this so difficult? I asked myself, but my inner crafter didn’t have an answer.

It was then that I heard voices accompanied by the loud turning of wooden wheels from out in the yard. Heading to the doorway, I saw Cooper and Janey arriving back at the craftstead in the artificed cart I’d made for them as a wedding present. I had been nervous about the quality of my workmanship on the vehicle, but Cooper and Janey absolutely loved it, and they used it all the time. Even so, the noise from the wheels concerned me. I had oiled them, but it seemed that wasn’t enough. I’d need to take a look at that later.

In the yard, Cooper chatted with the builders for a while, allowing Stacey to show him the progress they’d made so far. Seeing Janey alone, I took my chance and left the workshop and crossed the yard, joining her just as she reached the main house.

“How was Trecher’s Pass?” I asked.

“Cold, wet, muddier than a pig pen, but absolutely lovely,” said Janey. “I wouldn’t recommend Sunhampton to anyone looking for their pulse rate to be raised even slightly above normal, but if you want a relaxing life, there’s no better place.”

Janey removed her woolly gloves. Her long, slender fingers bore lots of small, thin, white patches which were the scars from old alchemy projects gone wrong. All of her fingers were bright red with the cold, except for the little finger on her right hand, which was pure white.

Noticing me looking at it, she said, “A circulation problem. It’s done it since I was a girl. I’ve had it looked at by healers, but they’ve always chalked it down to one of those things. A quirk of the body. Now, I need to sit down with a mug of sweet tea and a biscuit or three to dip in it.”

“I was wondering, Janey…” I said.

“Ah. There’s that voice that Jack told me about. The one he says that you use when you need something.”

“I was just hoping you might let me take a peek through your alchemy supplies. You’ll be pleased, because I have something of an alchemy project that I’m working on, but my workmanship isn’t standing up too well against the Five Factors, and I figured that if I had better ingredients…”

“An alchemy project?” she said, smiling.

“I knew you’d like that! Yes, I’m just trying to whip up a salve. I know I’ve been neglecting alchemy for a while, but better late than never, right?”

“I’m pleased, Lewis. Very pleased. I was beginning to think you might as well use your alembic to make vegetable soup in, for all the good it would do gathering dust in the house.”

“Then I can take a look through your powders?”

“No,” said Janey.

This caught me by surprise. I’d expected her to be so happy I was taking an interest in her discipline that she’d be delighted to help me.

“Err…no?” I said.

“Sorry, Lewis. Alchemy isn’t just about mixing powders and boiling leaves. The procurement and preparation of ingredients is just as important, if not more so. I can’t just let you skip a huge part of the process, can I? What sort of help would I be giving you if I did that? If you’re serious about leveling your alchemy, then you’ll need to put effort into every stage of it. Not just the fun part where you mix everything together.”

For a moment I was caught in a net of surprise, before Janey’s words finally sank in and made sense, helping me wriggle free and swim into open waters. She wasn’t just being difficult; she was trying to help me.

Hitting such an unexpected block didn’t irritate me. If anything, it was sort of pleasing, despite the delay it meant for my project. It was familiar ground of the kind I’d walked ever since coming to live in the craftstead. Nobody got better at anything if things were just handed to them. It was the way of the world. My friend James Trafford, a newly qualified instructor at the artificer’s guild in Port Vesta, took this to extremes and believed that the best way to level your skills was to put them under pressure. Janey asking me to procure my own ingredients was a minor version of this.

This brought to my mind all the lessons Master Cooper had taught me during my apprenticeship, and his style of hands-off teaching.

“You and Master Cooper are perfect for each other, you know that?” I said.

There’s no better place to be on a winter evening than Sunhampton. Douggie Fernglass, the handyman for Coiner’s Way, had already lit the street lamps, whose flames burned orange and glowed from behind the safety of their glass enclosures at the top of black poles taller than most of the buildings that they illuminated. A sheet of thin ice covered the rooftops of the shops and cafes on either side of the street, though the cobbles themselves were spared any treacherous cold snaps thanks to a layer of salt grit that Douggie had spread over them. Over at the King’s Head tavern the owner, Alec, had set up a hot cider and mulled wine stall to sell to the shoppers who walked by. The smell of simmering red wine and nutmeg and cloves reached out temptingly.

“Busy tonight,” said Chris. “Shouldn’t everything be shut?”

“It’s Wednesday,” I reminded him.

“Oh, right. Late shopping night.”

With the holidays approaching, the merchants of Coiner’s Way honored the decades old tradition of opening their stores later for one night per week. Commuter wagons from places like Full Striding, Hattersdale, and Stow ran late services to our village, dropping folks off at the town gates in the early afternoon, and taking them home again in the evening when all the shops were closed. It was a ritual amongst city dwellers to come to our quaint little town to do their holiday shopping, and boy, did our traders take advantage.

Chris and I headed through Sunhampton and to Jester’s cottage, where he’d invited us for dinner. He’d extended this invite to Phil, but he’d refused, citing work commitments. Really, however, I knew that his arthritis had played up so badly today – what with the cold snap in the air and all his intricate rigging work – that he couldn’t even face using a knife and fork. I felt so bad for the guy, but I didn’t broach it with Paisley or Chris. If Phil didn’t want to explain the real reason he wasn’t here, that was up to him. I had, however, advised him to go see Healer Brown about it.

Similarly, Jester had also asked Paisley to come, but she couldn’t afford to miss out on all the trade she’d get on a late night shopping evening. With regrets, she’d declined his offer.

It was a little peculiar that Jester had been so insistent on having us around for dinner tonight. He could easily have moved it until Thursday night so that Phil and Paisley could come, I felt. There must have been a reason.

“What did you bring?” asked Chris, as we left Coiner’s Way and then turned left onto Yellow Leaf Avenue, which we needed to follow for a while before we’d see Jester’s cottage.

“Did I need to bring something?”

“Oh, Lewis. Lewis, Lewis, Lewis,”

“What?”

“Jester invited us to dinner. Dinner guests always bring something.”

“But it’s just Jester.”

“I know, but...” Chris sighed. “Where did you learn your manners? Or lack of them?”

“Well, I spent most of my life on a wagon traveling round Easterly. Sometimes we washed in streams outside towns, and I ate most meals sitting around a campfire. I don’t think we ever went to dinner parties.”

“Poor Lewis, growing up like that,” said Chris. “Oh, did I tell you that I’m taking up the violin? Here, I’ll play a song for you to accompany your tragic story.”

As usual when we teased each other, I found it impossible to resist laughing. Chris had a way about him where he couldn’t have caused offense even if he tried. He could stand over my shoulder insulting my work minute by minute, and I wouldn’t have gotten annoyed with him.

Giving him a playful shove, I said, “What did you bring?”

“Paisley gave me two bottles of dandelion cordial from her store. It’s premium stuff.”

“So you didn’t really bring anything either!”

“Yes, I did,” said Chris.

“No, your girlfriend gave you something to bring. You didn’t have to do a thing. That’s not the same at all. I bet she even tied a ribbon around it.”

“Well…there might be a ribbon…”

“The dandelion cordial is from both of us,” I said. “Otherwise, I’ll tell him that Paisley did everything, and all you did was carry the bottles.”

“Deal.”

When we reached Jester’s doorstep, I barely reached for the knocker before the door swung open, and Jester stood there wearing a thick, woolly sweater with black embroidery on it that depicted three wolves howling. A waft of heat came from the hallway behind him, and I could just about see a fire glowing in the hearth in the living room. Next to it was a huge stack of logs.

“Here,” said Chris, handing him the bottles of dandelion cordial.

Jester took them, inspecting the labels. “Very thoughtful.”

“Just a little something to say thank you for the invite.”

“Well, please tell Paisley thank you,” said Jester, prompting Chris to shoot me a disgruntled look. “Now, come in, come in. Shoes off, if you don’t mind.”

Glad that I had worn clean, fresh socks, I watched with amusement as Chris removed his boots to reveal a black sock and a red sock. His big toe stuck out of the red one. Bootless, we walked through Jester’s cottage, where he had already adorned every wall, shelf, and basically any available space with a Yulthor decoration. There were multicolored baubles that reflected the firelight, reams of tinsel strung everywhere, several little dolls of Old Lady Yulthor. It felt like we’d gotten lost on the way to Jester’s house and found ourselves in a museum dedicated to Yulthor.

“I got a little carried away,” said Jester. “We never really celebrated Yulthor at home. My foster parents believed in The Many. I couldn’t even display the cards my classmates gave me. Then when I was older and rented a room in Hattersdale, I wasn’t allowed to put so much as a nail in the walls or my landlord would go as red as a beetroot. I s’pose I’ve got a lot of Yulthor making up to do.”

“It looks great,” said Chris. “Mum and Dad used to go crazy for Yulthor, too. We had a twenty-feet-tall Yulthor tree in the grand hall. Me and mum would go cut it down from the grounds.”

Sometimes, I was reminded that Chris and I shared very different backgrounds. Coming from a family of well-off and prestigious town criers, he enjoyed benefits that were simply unavailable to me as I moved from place to place in the back of a theater troupe wagon. For all that, though, the only time I glimpsed Chris’s past was through anecdotes like this. He never really mentioned his huge house or his rich family otherwise.

Jester patted his sofa. “Sit yourselves down and I’ll get us something to drink. Beer? Tea? Wine? Cider? Cordial? It’s a little late for coffee, but I don’t mind brewing some up. Or there’s always just water from the yard pump. Nothing like a glass of cold water. It’s nature’s beer.”

“It really isn’t,” said Chris.

Watching Jester standing there almost twitching with nervous energy, I wished my friend would just relax a little. It was strange, with Jester. Whenever I called at his cottage on my own, he was calm. If two or more people visited him, he seemed to get locked into ‘host’ mode, and was filled with a frantic, eager-to-please energy.

“I’ll have a beer, please,” I said.

“Can I have a bottle of that pear cider?” asked Chris. “The same one you gave me last week? Sorry to be a pain.”

“The only pain would be if I couldn’t give my friend the drink he wants. I think I have a bottle left hanging around. Won’t be a moment.”

Alone, Chris and I stared at the vast array of Yulthor trinkets and ornaments that glittered, glowed, and in the case of a wind-up Old Lady Yulthor figure, even sang.

In a lowered voice, Chris said, “I like it and all, but it’s a little early for Yulthor decorations, isn’t it?”

I shrugged. “The traders on Coiner’s Way are already selling Yulthor things.”

“I know. Back home we went crazy for Yulthor, but even we didn’t put up Yulthor decorations until it was four weeks away. That’s the tradition.”

“Is it?”

“Sure. Put them up earlier, and all your family will get on Yulthor Day is acorns. That’s what they say. When did you put up decorations in your wagon, poor Lewis?”

I grinned. “Shut up.”

Jester soon joined us, handing a beer to me, a cider to Chris. Then he said, “Dinner won’t be too long. I slightly mistimed the beef, so we’ll just have to while away an extra one minute and thirty seconds. My apologies. Can I get either of you a snack? Some biscuits, perhaps? Bread with chili oil? Some pitted olives in a lemon and basil sauce?”

“Just sit your arse down, Jester!” said Chris. “You’ve already done enough.”

Soon, the cottage filled with the scent of beef roasting in a rich red wine gravy, accompanied by the succulent aroma of honey roasted carrots and parsnips, and the slightly sweet, slightly savory smell of freshly baked bread. While dinner at the craftstead was served in the kitchen, Jester had a small dining table in the living room. Places were set with geometric precision, and Jester even arranged cutlery according to when we’d need to use it. Back at the craftstead, we tended to use the same fork or spoon for every meal. I’d once seen Cooper eat an entire three course dinner with a butter knife because he was too lazy to wash a fork.

The three of us sat around the table and ate beef stew and talked about this and that, protected from the cold outside that snuck in through the old cottage’s cavities by the heat of the fire. Darkness pressed in against the windows but not in a menacing way, more as if it was just saying hello.

“How’s business?” asked Chris.

Jester stared at the beef and gravy on his spoon, as if the food might word his answer for him. “No business becomes successful overnight,” he said.

“I just wish I had accounts that you could straighten out. Maybe I could put a word in with the mayor of Perentee, but I don’t really know her all that well. And I don’t think she likes me very much. Still, I could try.”

“Thanks, Chris,” said Jester, “But I’m okay for now. I still have some of Aunt Sheila’s books that I could sell if it comes down to that. I’m trying to hold on to as many as I can. It just seems like the right thing to do, since she left them all to me. Then again, I went through her records, and it seems she was selling her collection towards the end of her life.”

“I know that you never met her, but I’m sure she’d be happy that her nephew is living in her cottage. That you’ve fixed it up, and that you’re trying to make a living for yourself,” I said. “That’d please her way more than holding onto some books for the sake of it.”

“I suppose it would. I hope it would, anyway.”

After our main course, Jester served up a lemon drizzle cake that he’d bought from Rolls and Dough. Mrs. Grant often reduced the price of unsold products at the end of the day. This meant that some penny pinching folks waited until the close of business to visit her and thus reduced her profits, but she always said she’d rather sell a cake for a penny than have to throw it in the trash. Jester had managed to score a full lemon cake for half the price, and Chris and I were the beneficiaries.

With half my piece of cake gone, I raised another huge forkful of it to my mouth, when Chris hit the punchline of a joke. Without being able to stop myself, I laughed so hard that I sprayed crumbs everywhere.

“Sorry, Jester,” I said.

“Oh, it’s alright.”

“No, I’ll go get a cloth.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, standing up.

“No!” I said, more forcefully than I’d intended. “You sit down. You’ve done enough. I’ll sort it.”

In the kitchen, I couldn’t find a dishcloth. Jester was constantly arranging and rearranging the layout of the room, hoping to one day achieve optimal kitchen organization. Looking for a cloth, I opened pantry doors and drawers, finding nothing where I expected it to be.

Opening one drawer at the far side of the kitchen near the sink, I saw something even more unexpected. There was a small box wrapped in gift paper, with a ribbon on it. A gift tag was attached to it by a thin piece of twine.

My instincts told me to close the drawer, but my inner curiosity won out. Shamefully, I flipped the tag over to read who the gift was for. ‘To my lovely boy, on your birthday,’ it read.

Jester has a son?

That was my first thought, but it was a silly one, born from a part of my brain that had no inhibitions on its thoughts, the same part where all my bad jokes and even worse artificery ideas resided. Ideas like a ‘Feel the Benefit’ jacket that actually made you colder than you were before, so that you’d feel warmer when you took it off. Or a self-eating dessert bowl which had an artificeric link to a plate. You could put vegetables on a plate, and if your child refused to eat them or was slow in doing so, the bowl would start eating their dessert right in front of them. Neither project, like all the others that dwelled in this part of my brain, would ever see the light of day.

No, that part of my brain wasn’t to be trusted, as it had just proven. Jester almost certainly didn’t have a son to buy gifts for. He was only two years and ten months older than me. This made it technically possible for him to have a child, but unlikely, since he’d never, ever mentioned it.

The much more logical answer was that this gift was to Jester from a family member. One who referred to him as their ‘boy’. Like me, Jester’s mother had died and he’d never known his father. It was one of the things that gave us a bond that we didn’t share with our other friends. Foster parents had raised him, and it was probable they would refer to Jester as their ‘boy’.

My detective work didn’t stop there. A brief look at the tag told me that it was my friend’s birthday soon. This I deduced from the fact that the present was still unopened, though my detective skills wouldn’t reveal why he hadn’t mentioned it to me or Chris.

Closing the drawer, I continued my search for a cloth until, finally, I opened a pantry door and found a stack of them.

When we left Jester’s cottage, the darkness welcomed us with a chilly embrace, as if it was an old friend who hadn’t seen us for a while and was telling us that we had so many things to catch up on, promising to accompany us all the way home now that we’d left the warmth of the log fire. On Coiner’s Way, the late night shoppers had already departed for their commuter wagons back to Full Striding and Hattersdale, and the merchants on either side of the Way were tidying their stores, flipping their signs from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ and locking up. There was no sign of Alec and his mulled wine stall outside the King’s Head, which was a shame. It would have been nice to walk home with a cup of it.

In Paisley’s store, Chris and I tidied up while she happily ate the leftover beef stew that Jester had insisted that we take for her. The cold air, as much as it had tried, had been unable to get its freezing hands on the food thanks to the artificery that I’d enchanted into the sealable container, and this meant that her store was soon rich with the smell of beef, onions, carrots, and gravy just like in Jester’s cottage. The smell made me feel hungry again, despite barely an hour passing since I’d finished my cake.

“So this present,” said Paisley, between spoonfuls of stew, “Are you sure it’s not an old present that he forgot or something?”

“He hasn’t even lived in the cottage for a year yet,” I answered. “Besides, he’s always moving stuff around in his kitchen. He purposefully, and recently, put the present in the drawer. Maybe we ought to just forget it. It’s his personal business.”

Paisley swallowed another huge spoonful of stew and then began scraping the contents of the bowl for its final, delicious dregs. “Maybe you could have used the psychic notebook that you made. Or Chris could have used his Lore and Rumor Gathering.”

“I can’t use my skill tree for stuff like this, Pais,” said Chris. “A town crier has to be very careful how they use their abilities, as well as what kind of news they announce to the world. I could lose my job.”

“Well, if you guys are going to be boring and respect our good friend’s privacy, I s’pose we’ll just have to speculate. If you ask me, the present certainly means it’s his birthday very soon.”

“Then why hasn’t he told us about it?” I asked.

“Some people are funny like that. They don’t like to be the center of attention or feel like they’re being egotistical or something. Me? I want the whole of Sunhampton to know when it’s my birthday. And I want them to buy my presents from my store.”

“Wait,” I said, “He was so insistent about us coming for dinner tonight. He wouldn’t change the date, even though you and Phil couldn’t make it. And he bought a whole lemon drizzle cake.”

“Chris sometimes does that on a normal Tuesday,” said Paisley.

“Still, this can’t be a coincidence. Do you think it was Jester’s birthday tonight and he just didn’t tell us? Man, I feel so bad.”

“How could we possibly have known?” said Chris. “Write to his foster parents? Demand to see the birth certificate of every new friend we make?”

“I guess.”

“If you ask me,” said Paisley, “Jester wanted to spend his birthday with us, only he didn’t want to tell us it was his birthday because he didn’t want a big fuss. I feel awful that I chose to work in my store…but then, some businesses make a whole week's worth of trade on late shopping nights. You know what? I think we should get him a present.”

Chapter 7

The craftstead was empty when Chris and I got home. At least, empty of humans. As empty as a place can ever be when a dozen wolfhounds live there. That is, not very empty at all. Hearing us return, the huge, lovable beasts stormed out of their kennel in a tornado of fur and swarmed us for attention.

“Woah! Down, Wrath! You’re too big to be jumping up like that,” said Chris.

“I think we’re in trouble. They can smell the beef on us.”

Chris kneeled so he was at eye level with the hounds. “Sorry, guys and girls. The beef was cooked in onions and garlic, otherwise I’m sure Jester woulda given us some to bring home for you guys.”

“I think we’d better raid their biscuit pantry,” I said. “It’s the only way we’ll make it through this alive.”

That was right - Cooper’s wolfhounds not only had their own kennel building, but their own biscuit pantry, too. Me? I had to make do with a glass jar in the kitchen that kept getting raided by Cooper and Chris, no matter how creative I got in hiding it. It really was a dog’s life here in the craftstead.

“Mr. Cooper? Janey?” said Chris.

“They’re not back yet.”

“How do you know?”

“Their cart isn’t outside.”

Cooper and Janey had gone to the King’s Head earlier that evening, which was hosting a singalong night. The owner, Alec, had hired a married bard couple from Hattersdale called Rindle and Megan, who played the lute and the drums. They would provide the backing music for any songs the tavern patrons cared to sing, while Alec would fill his customers up with the prerequisite alcohol and spirits that would actually get them up on stage.

I had been to one or two of these nights before, and it was well known around Sunhampton that Cooper could not let such an evening go by without treating everyone to a rendition of ‘The Goblin Wants a Wife.’ He had a great voice, as long as he wasn’t too drunk to form words. Janey, meanwhile, had a singing voice that would curdle milk. Really, she sounded truly, truly awful. Worse than me, even. She was beautiful, witty, a master of alchemy, so I guessed it made sense. We can’t all be perfect at everything.

So, alone except for the hounds, Chris and I had half a beer each on the decking outside the main house, enjoying the nighttime silence and filling only scant parts of it by listing all the different ideas we had for Jester’s present. Paisley was way better at this stuff than us, though. She was just much more creative, and her merchant skills made her great at matching a person’s needs with a physical item that could be purchased with gold.

As our glasses drained, the best Chris and I could come up with were a gift voucher for a ‘jousting adventure’ day at a fort northeast of Stow, or a coupon for Percy Tattersall’s bookstore in town. Jester was an avid reader, and had already devoured the books in his aunt’s collection that were too common – and hence worthless - to sell.

“So a jousting afternoon, or a book coupon,” I said.

“Are you sure Jester likes jousting? I’ve heard you talk about jousting before, Lewis. Are you just trying to buy a present for yourself?”

“Maybe. But jousting or book coupons are our options.”

“That’s…uh…settled, then.”

I sighed. “It doesn’t feel right, does it? Neither of them feel like good gifts.”

“No, they don’t,” agreed Chris.

The next morning I did, in fact, find myself making a trip to Tattersall Books, but not to buy Jester a coupon. Since a quick check of Cooper’s artificed bookshelf hadn’t yielded the fruits that I needed, I decided that I was going to have to spend some gold.

Tattersall Books was an oddly shaped corner building positioned where Brookland Drive and Ladbroke Grove intersected, an acorn’s throw from Coiner’s Way. The long, rectangular sign above the shop window was the fanciest in Sunhampton, adorned with golden, cursive handwriting that gave the name ‘Tattersall’s Books’ a regal, upmarket look. The window that displayed his books was never anything less than spotless, and in fact an unofficial rivalry had started between him and Paisley to see who could keep their windows the cleanest. I was sorry to say that right now, Mr. Tattersall was winning.

“Morning, Lewis,” said Mr. Tattersall. He was standing on a step ladder and arranging the books on the top row of a shelf.

“How’s the book selling game?”

“Game?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Jace Porter always says that. Like, ‘Jester, how’s the accountancy game?’ ‘Lewis, how's the artificery game?”

Percy carefully climbed down his ladder and reached the ground, where he stood a good two feet shorter than me. “The approach of Yulthor is always good for me,” he said. “Folks buy more books in winter, that’s a fact. Nothing better than cozying up with a whiskey and a book. That’s another fact. Besides that, Yulthor is a gift giving season, and that means people want books not just for themselves but their wives, husbands, sisters, brothers. Yulthor is a glorious time of year.”

I had never really cared all that much for Yulthor. Not like most people did. For many folks, Yulthor became special because a big fuss was made of the holiday when they were growing up, but that wasn’t the case for me. It just wasn’t really a thing that the Five Fiends paid much attention to. All it really meant for the theater troupe was that they would perform Yulthor-themed plays for a month or two.

Later, when Mother and I went to live in my stepfather’s manor, Yulthor became even less of a priority. True to form, my stepfather hated Yulthor and refused to allow any decorations. Our Yulthor Day feast was a brief, silent meal in their dining room that was forever kept cold, an initiative of my stepfather’s so that dinner guests didn’t linger. If Yulthor carol singers ever dared approach the manor, the best they could hope for was to be turned away by Sid or one of my stepfather’s other employees. If my stepfather had hounds – he didn’t, since he hated getting dog fur on his clothes – you could be sure he’d be the kind of person to release them on unwanted visitors.

So, not having Yulthor instilled as a tradition from childhood, I didn’t give it the same special attention that most people did. I didn’t begrudge them, though. One of the things I liked about it was that the season made other people happy.

“My only regret is that my daughter can’t make it here this year,” said Percy. “She got married last year. Kevin’s a nice lad, sure enough, but his family lives all the way in Gleethorpe Rise.”

“That’s across the channel, isn’t it?”

“Across the channel is underselling it,” said Percy. “Takes a day of travel just to get to the docks, and two nights sailing to get to the other side. She and Kevin have an agreement; they visit me one Yulthor, and his family the other.”

“Oh. Can’t you go with them?”

“They asked me,” said Percy. “Kevin did, in fact. He’s a thoughtful lad. I couldn’t ask for a better son-in-law. But it’d mean shutting my shop for a week, maybe more, at the busiest time of the year. I just can’t afford to do it. There’s been a Tattersall Books in Sunhampton for eighty-nine years, and I won’t be the Tattersall who breaks that run.”

I felt bad for Mr. Tattersall, being stuck here in town alone on Yulthor. At the same time, I saw something of Paisley in him. A kind of glimpse into my friend’s future. Would she have to sacrifice holidays and other memory-making times in order to get her business off the ground?

“Was there something in particular that you needed?” asked Mr. Tattersall, breaking me from my thoughts.

“I was wondering if you had any books about foraging.”

Soon, my coin pouch was a few coins lighter while my satchel was one book heavier, which I supposed meant a net gain in weight. Since I was an artificer and had artificed my bag, that added weight didn’t cause me any difficulty.

Next, I made a quick stop at Lee Hunter’s hunting supply shop, where I bought a forager’s belt with a clippable collecting bag, as well as a set of mediocre quality foraging tools. These included various sizes of scissors, preservation bags, and little bottles of salves and tinctures that eased the various cuts, scrapes, and stings a forager might get. I didn’t like buying mediocre tools, but it seemed a waste of gold to spend out on high quality gear for a profession I wouldn’t use much.

“Doing a bit of foraging?” asked Lee.

“I just needed to get some alchemy bits and pieces.”

“What you need, my friend, isn’t a set of scissors and tweezers. No. You need a crossbow. And a bear trap.”

“For clipping herbs?”

“Forget the plants!” said Lee. “Go hunt yourself a bear. You’ll never get an adrenaline rush like it.”

“If I ever want to line Healer Brown’s coin purse, I might just take you up on that,” I said.

Lee laughed, handed me my change, and then made hints that I should leave his shop now that our exchange was complete.

After a brisk walk out of town, climbing over the stile bordering Farmer Krek’s field, and then heading along a hiker’s path that drifted eastwards, I found myself in the woods that neighbored Sunhampton. Pinecones and pine needles not only littered much of the ground but gave the air a pervading piney smell, bitter but with the added freshness of nature that made me want to breathe deeply. The woodland was silent, as if sound was denied entry at the tree line. It made me feel like I’d walked into some forbidden realm where time stood still.

There, I spent my time dividing my attention between the foraging book I’d bought at Tattersall’s store, and the woodland around me. It was strange, looking at the woods while using the book. It was as if I was partially sighted, and someone had given me a pair of perfectly suited spectacles. If you’d asked me to describe the woods before now, I’d have said ‘trees, pine needles, twigs, mud, grass.’ Yes, I’m a poet, no doubting that.

Now that I was looking for specific leaves, plants, and fungi, I started to really appreciate the diversity that the collection of trees hid within its green canopy. I found red mushrooms that only ever grew on the damp side of a felled log. A sweet smelling kind of spring garlic that flourished solely in the shade of an oak tree. Patches of golden moss that would only ever call the eastern-facing trunk of a chestnut tree their home.

Finding the ingredients that I needed was one thing, but actually getting them was another. Alchemy was a skill tree that an artificer could learn, but it was also a whole class in itself. While my alchemy was a simple version, someone like Janey would have a whole skill tree dedicated to foraging and procuring ingredients, allowing her to greatly improve her skill in collecting leaves and other things in the most efficient way possible.

As for me, well, I clipped plants in the wrong places. I scooped up moss with all the precision of a drunk surgeon, destroying much of what I attempted to forage. Each time I foraged something and put it in my foraging bag on my belt, my alchemy token sent wisps of token text into the air.

Sunkiss fungi

Foraging percentage: 8%

Catterclove leaves

Foraging percentage: 5%

Not only did this mean I’d have to spend more time here but it also felt wasteful, and I got the strange – and ludicrous – idea that the trees were watching me, and that they weren’t too happy with my wastage.

“Sorry,” I said aloud. “I’m really trying.”

I waited as if this apology would actually prompt a response from the pines, the oaks, the chestnuts.

“Trying is only the start of it,” said a female voice.

A mixture of panic and wonder filled me. “…trees? Was that one of you?”

“My Gods, you can be simple sometimes, Lewis Cooper.”

Spinning on my heel, I was surprised to find Janey Morgan in the woodland with me. She was dressed head-to-toe in weatherproof clothes colored in the popular hue of ‘ranger green’ favored by all kinds of outdoors people. Her foraging toolbelt had not just one but five different removable collection bags, each for a different kind of ingredient. Set into loops on her belt were her foraging tools, and though I didn’t have much experience in using them, my crafter’s eye nevertheless told me that hers were of a much better quality than mine.

“I didn’t know you were coming here today,” I said. “I’d have asked you to join me.”

“Me, join you? I’m no stranger to the woods. I’m here every day, Lewis.”

As if to prove her point, a thrush swooped down from the branch of a chestnut tree behind Janey, landing on her shoulder. She wasn’t a ranger, and didn’t have any of the skill trees that would make her good with animals. Instead, her secret lay within her jacket pocket, from which she took out a bunch of sunflower seeds and fed them to the bird. It was no surprise that birds would warm to a familiar human who fed them delicious seeds. What was surprising, though, was how Janey had taught this one and all its friends to form an orderly queue on the tree branches, and approach her one by one.

“I couldn’t help hearing you muttering to yourself,” she said. “Cooper says you only tend to do that when something is going wrong.”

“Just me and my anvils for hands,” I said. “I keep destroying most of what I forage. It’s so strange. I feel like I’m clipping something at the right part, where it says to in the book. But when I put it in my forager’s bag, my alchemy token tells me I’ve only salvaged a small part.”

“The law of foraging probability,” said Janey. “When you’re crafting something, the quality of the finished product isn’t always exactly the same, is it? Random chance, your tools, your skills…they all decide the outcome. So it is with foraging. Your low level alchemy skill means that your foraging is very poorly developed.”

“Then it’s a vicious sword,” I said.

“A vicious circle. But go on.”

“A vicious circle. I want to improve my alchemy, and to do that I need to make a salve or a potion. Without better ingredients, I keep failing. But to get better ingredients – since I can’t use yours – I need to improve my alchemy.”

“Your first error, Lewis, is relying on a book to help you forage. Nobody ever learned anything from a book.”

“I think a hundred colleges across Easterly might disagree there.”

“Okay, but some things are only improved with practical experience. I might study a hundred books on learning to play the lute, but they won’t help me develop the muscle memory to play along to ‘The Goblin Wants a Wife.’”

“I just need to keep practicing?”

“As with any skill, yes,” said Janey.

“But it sort of feels like…”

Janey said nothing, and instead waited patiently for me to finish my thought of my own accord, rather than forcing me to answer. This was something she often did, preferring to let others fill silence rather than talking just for the sake of using her own voice.

I continued, “…it feels a little like the trees and everything else don’t like me wasting things when I forage. Like they’re watching me and frowning.”

I waited for her to laugh, but she didn’t.

“The trees aren’t watching you, Lewis. They aren’t judging you.”

“I know. It’s a silly thought.”

“At least not individually,” said Janey. “It’s true that many rangers, foragers, anyone who spends enough time outdoors believe that places like this have a collective consciousness. A sort of awareness that borders on sentience, without quite reaching it. In some dim way, the trees might be aware of what you’re doing. But they’ll also have a sense of the respect that you’re showing them.”

“Respect? I’ve been scraping moss and clipping plants like a…guy who scrapes a lot of moss and clips a lot of plants.”

“The fact you’re worried about the trees shows that you respect the woodland. You wouldn’t believe how many folks start campfires that they don’t extinguish properly. Deface tree trunks with their names, leave their litter on the ground and in the bushes. Plants, fungi, moss, it all grows back, Lewis. As long as you stay respectful, the woodland doesn’t mind you taking them.”

“Still,” I said, “I’ve been cutting exactly where the book tells me to. Scraping moss with my scraping knife. I’m not expecting to forage perfectly, but I should be doing better than this.”

“Your problem is that you’re working from only one side of your brain. Alchemy requires knowledge, yes, but it is also an instinctual art.”

“An art? Not a science?”

“It is the marriage of both. The book teaches you the science of foraging. But you must apply it using art. Read the book. Absorb how it says to collect things. But when you go to actually do it, use your gut. The marriage of your brain and instincts is what will make you a better alchemist. Heck, it would make you better at almost anything.”

Janey was here to collect ingredients of her own, so she soon left my company and headed into the darker middle of the woodland, disappearing from view. After a while, she was so deep in the darkness that all I saw of her was the sudden glow of her lamp as she lit it.

Still carrying that strange awareness of the trees around me but nevertheless feeling better about my foraging, I got back to work clipping, cutting, scraping, plucking. It was harder work than I expected, and I soon felt my knees begin to get sore after kneeling down so much. Gradually, the token text that came back to me looked more and more pleasing than before.

Danderluck root

Foraging percentage: 14%

Chiminerry berries

Foraging percentage: 16%

Lacking the luxury of a forager’s belt with five separate bags, I had to settle for storing all my things in one bag with the intention of sorting through them back at the craftstead. Soon, my bag was three-quarters full and boasted not just a medley of plants, berries, moss, and fungi but also gave off an orchestra of smells. The sweetness of berries, the bitter, almost damp smell of fungi; they all played a woodland concerto in my nose.

Holding a lamp and singing a song in her charming yet hopelessly out of tune voice, Janey soon returned from the heart of the woods. Reaching me at the outer edges where the daylight broke through the tree line, she extinguished the lamp and hung it from a loop on her belt.

“How’s the foraging game?” I asked her.

She looked at me quizzically.

“Sorry, I mean did you get everything you needed?”

“I always do. How about you, my young would-be alchemist? Have you enjoyed the foraging process? Much better than working in a hot, stuffy workshop, no?”

“You’re never going to persuade me to switch classes, Janey.”

“Having another pupil would annoy me, anyway. Hungry?”

“Always.”

She smiled. “Jack made me some sandwiches. He always makes too many; he judges me by his own appetite. That means I have enough to share.”

Janey Morgan and I ate our lunch sitting next to each other on a felled log. The sandwiches, I was pleased to see, were of the kind that Master Cooper named The Artificer’s Special, consisting of fifty-seed bread, thrice honeyed ham, West Fardale cheese, and pickled herring.

“If these sandwiches were an alchemic recipe,” said Janey, “I would swear on my life that they wouldn’t work. Yet somehow they do. And Jack was in tune enough with his gut to give such a sandwich a chance. You see?”

“Ah, but remember the pork and jam pie that he made last week?”

“Well,” said Janey, looking pale for a moment, “Sometimes our gut gets it wrong.”

Chapter 8

I spent that afternoon in the workshop, preparing my foraged ingredients according to both my foraging book and the 1001 Recipes book I had gotten from Master Cooper’s bookshelf. Phil wasn’t in the workshop today. I worried that his arthritis was the reason, but I told myself that he might have just taken the day off. Somehow, I doubted that, but I allowed myself to exist in a state of ill-founded optimism anyway.

Similarly, Stacey and her builders were nowhere to be seen, either. According to Chris, the roof of a Church of the Many in Little Flitwick had been struck by lightning and caved in, and Stacey’s crew had been called out for emergency repairs. This was due to a contract she’d signed long ago where the town paid her a yearly stipend that meant they could call on her for emergency repair work. Stacey wasn’t happy, Cooper wasn’t happy, and I supposed the partners at the Church of the Many weren’t happy.

This gave me peace and quiet in which to work, but I wasn’t happy, either. Preparing alchemy ingredients was much more of a pain than just taking them from a jar, it turned out. Some of my foraged ingredients needed to be dried, others boiled. Some ingredients had to be set in an oil solution, while some were only of any use if they were kept cold. It was tiresome and frustrating work, since it felt like a chore. A barrier to the real act of alchemy.

“Jack and I are just off into town,” said Janey, appearing at the workshop doorway. “Do you need anything?”

“An artificed alchemy ingredient preparation machine,” I said. “Or maybe a tinkered one. Either way, something that does all this stuff for me.”

“Not enjoying the preparation?”

“I just wanted to get started with some alchemy again, now that I have fresher ingredients,” I said.

“Lewis, my impatient young friend, the preparation is part of the alchemy. How are you not understanding this? The runner who refuses to warm up risks injury. The bard who never tunes his lute can’t complain when he plays a bad note. Now, do you want anything from town, or not?”

“Some sweet rolls, please.”

Once Janey’s words sunk in, they forced me to reevaluate how I felt about this stage of the alchemic process. It wasn’t a chore or a barrier, but an important and intrinsic part of it. I could no more skip ingredient preparation then I could avoid sharpening my saw from time to time, or oiling my artificer’s tongs or disenchantment fork.

Three hours and thirty-six minutes passed before my preparations were complete. Everything that needed to be boiled had been boiled. Things that needed a long, gentle simmer were currently undergoing a long, gentle simmer. I’d set leaves out to dry, I had stored moss in a cool, dry place. All I could do now was wait.

The cold was really setting in over our part of Easterly now, and the sloping hill from the craftstead and into town felt precarious. If it got any colder or icier, it would be a deathtrap. At the very least, it was liable to make someone fall over. I would definitely have to do something about it.

Reaching town, I headed as usual toward Coiner’s Way and then in the direction of Paisley’s store. It was a route I’d walked countless times, and I often made the mistake of doing so while lost in my thoughts. This meant I was sometimes guilty of not paying attention to the world around me, walking in a conscious dream and ignoring the outer world in favor of my inner one.

Today, though, something caught my attention. Across the way, Douggie Fernglass was pasting a poster to a street lamp. Something about it first caught my gaze, but then struck me on a deeper level. My gut level, as Janey would have said. I felt the hairs on my arms stand up, but I didn’t know why. It was only a poster. Douggie put posters up all the time. It was probably advertising a crafter’s market or something like that. So why did I feel so strange?

“Hey, Douggie,” I said, getting closer. Then, when I could read the poster, I felt the words clog up in my throat.

“Lewis?” said Douggie.

“I-”

“Are you alright, lad? Have yourself a nice sit down over there,” he said, pointing at a nearby bench.

I read the poster once, twice, then again, wondering if the words might change. They remained the same each time, and repeated readings finally allowed the meaning to sink in. When it did, I wasn’t sure how I felt. Warm, yet cold. Two fronts meeting inside me and causing unpredictable weather patterns.

“Who gave you this poster?” I said.

“Connor at the post office. He gives me all the posters I need to stick up.”

Connor Perry was Sunhampton’s postmaster. He’d recently taken on an assistant, a woman named Seelka Syme, which meant he no longer had to deliver all the mail by himself.

“Any idea where Connor got it from?”

“I don’t ask. Don’t rightly care. Something wrong, Lewis? You’ve got a face like a slapped arse.”

His imagery made me laugh, despite myself. And that was just what I needed. “I wanted to make sure the poster’s accurate, that’s all.”

In Paisley’s store, she was busy pricing up a bunch of jars, bowls, and mugs she’d bought from Henk Wiseman, a local potter. A brief glance at them made me raise my eyebrows. I certainly wouldn’t have paid so much for them. But then, Paisley was the merchant, not me. Under my leadership, I was sure the store would have gone out of business in a week.

“So I went to see Connor,” I told her, pacing around as I often found myself doing in her store. So much, in fact, that I was in danger of creating my own little pathway of worn stones on the floor. “He told me that the poster was right.”

“They’re really coming, then?”

I nodded. “The Five Fiends are performing a Yulthor play in Sunhampton. Toby, Cobby, Mel, Big Henry. They’re all coming.”

“Wait. That’s only four Fiends,” said Paisley.

“The fifth was my mother. I don’t know who they recruited after her.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I just…I don’t know.”

“How do you feel about it?” she asked.

I searched my inner self, but it felt like I was trying to read a book written in some foreign language. I could make out the shapes of my feelings, but couldn’t quite grasp their true meaning.

“I loved traveling with them,” I began. And once I started, I found my feelings come to the fore in a way that only ever happened when I spoke with my best friend. “But after we left them, we never heard from Toby and the others again. When we lived in my stepfather’s manor, they never got in touch. I don’t know if they were upset with Mum for leaving them, or what. But they didn’t even reach out when she passed.”

“It’s okay to be mad at them,” she said.

“I don’t know that I have the right. They didn’t owe me anything.”

“Nobody needs a right to have feelings, Lewis. I’d be mad, I’ll tell you that. You were a group, weren’t you? You lived together. Performed together. At least your mother performed. I suppose they were a little like your family, weren’t they?”

“I guess not, when it comes down to it.”

Paisley set her pen and her blank labels aside and faced me, wearing that sweet smile of hers that never failed to brighten my day. “We don’t have to go see them. We’ll boycott their show. In fact, I’ll spread rumors that their play is full of cursing and…bad stuff. You know. Blasphemy against The Many. Lots of adult scenes. That’ll put people off.”

“No, no. Don’t do that. I guess I’ll just have to think about it.”

“In the meantime,” said Paisley. “About my store room…you said you’d refit it so I can make it a customer-facing floor. I could always see if Stacey and Simon and the other builder fella can do it.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I just have a lot going on right now. But I need to level my Simple Craft and Forge skill tree, and refitting your stock room will help with that. Just bear with me, and I’ll make a start on it.”

“Did you have any thoughts about Jester’s present?”

“I haven’t really put my mind to it.”

“I was thinking I’d make him a hamper of local products. You know, a few bottles of the cider he loves so much. A scarf, glove, and hat set. He doesn’t dress for the weather at all. Chris was talking about getting him a new stationery set for his accounting.”

“We’re getting separate gifts?” I said.

“Well, you could always join with mine or Chris’s…”

“No, no, I’ll think of something. In fact, I’ll make something for him. What’s the point of being an artificer if I can’t do that?”

The idea of making a present for Jester had a strange effect on my mind, in that I found it had helped me, temporarily, forget about the Five Fiends’ visit. That was the solution, I realized. It was always the solution when I was feeling down. I just needed a project to work on.

True, I already had the Sunny Cafe notebook issue to solve, and I had an alchemy project to finish. But I had hit a stumbling block on both, at least for now. I needed some other work to get stuck into right now.

Paisley had already given me the plans for the re-fit of her shop weeks ago when Jace Porter invited all of us to his manor for dinner. Detailed ones, drawn in graph paper using a fine pencil and showing the exact layout she needed. That was two months ago; since then she’d carried on working on the plans, giving me an updated version every four days or so. The shop re-fit blueprints were now on their fifteenth version, and involved a total change of not just the stockroom at the back, but her main shop floor, and the two upstairs rooms that were never visited by customers.

Happy to have this to focus my mind on, I made my way back to the craftstead and to the supply shed, which was much more organized now that Janey was living with us. She didn’t care much about Cooper’s, Chris’s, and my bad habits in the house and how we didn’t keep the place spotless. In fact, she was worse than us in many ways. I swear, the amount of crumbs that woman left on our chairs…

In any case, what Janey really hated was to see a crafter’s work materials left unorganized. It was as though two spheres of her life were governed by different rules in her head. It was fine to tolerate a little chaos at home, even in your business and the way you ran it, but actual crafting materials must be kept in order. So, one rainy afternoon, she’d taken on the task of arranging every piece of timber, every scrap of metal, every screw and every bolt, into a proper place.

“Now that I’ve gone to all this effort,” she told me and Cooper, “Do you think you’ll want to keep it this way? It will be better for you, surely, if you can find whatever you need, whenever you need it?”

Cooper and I had promised we would keep the shed organized. Master Cooper had failed on his promise almost instantly; his love was for artificery, not tidying up. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I covered for him by tidying up the mess he made in the shed when he went there in search of materials. I didn’t want Janey’s hard work to go to waste. A few days later, however, I opened the shed door to find Cooper holding a dustpan and brush, sweeping all the dust from the floor. He, too, it seemed, appreciated Janey’s hard work.

Standing in the storage shed, I breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of planed oak and rough-hewn beech. This was a completely different woody smell to that of the pine woodland, and I think I preferred it. Nature was great, but a crafting workshop would always be my home. I loved the oil, the varnish, the smell of miodes that reminded me of the air after a thunderstorm.

“Ah here he is, the little thief,” said a voice.

Turning around, I saw Master Cooper wearing blue dungarees with one of his oil and grime splattered shirts underneath. Rumor had it those shirts of his had once been white many, many moons ago.

“Hey, Master Cooper. Doing a spot of crafting?”

“Our business doesn’t run itself, lad. How’s the notebook coming along for Spruce?”

“Getting there slowly,” I said. Then, to forestall any doubts Cooper might have of me, I added, “I think I’ll have it done soon.”

“Good. So what are you doing in my supply shed? Pilfering things, no doubt.”

“Your supply shed, Master Cooper?”

“Just because your name’s on the craftstead sign, doesn’t mean you own it, my boy. The day you forget that is the day we need to have a talk.”

“I suppose I better stop making all those trips to our suppliers for you, then,” I said.

“Fine, fine, you little snail,” said Master Cooper, grinning as he always did when we had our verbal jousts. “What’s bothering you, anyway?”

I feigned casualness by checking through a few stacks of oak cuts while answering, “Why would anything be bothering me?”

“Because you get this look on your face when you’re not working for the work itself, but to avoid something else. You might not think old Cooper is perceptive, but I’m in touch with one or two of my feelings. A crafter gets to learn what the looks on other crafters’ faces mean.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

“Lewis, bottled feelings fizz up and fizz up, and if you don’t release some of the pressure they explode and send glass flying out everywhere.”

“That sounds like something Janey would say.”

“So what if it is?” said Cooper. “It’s part of being married, is it not, to take on the good sides of the people closest to you? C’mon. You’ve got a gray cloud following you, or my name isn’t Jack Cooper.”

Sighing, I leaned back onto a huge stack of planed beech timber. The stack of wood shifted a centimeter but held my weight. “The Five Fiends are coming to Sunhampton,” I said.

“Ah.”

“It doesn’t bother me that much. I’d just rather not see them if I had the choice. I think that’s all.”

“Don’t you want them to see how well you’re doing?” said Cooper. “How you’ve become a fine artificer? You’d have made your mother proud.”

For a second, I was choked up. “Oh…I…no, they wouldn’t care, anyhow. They’re not bothered about me.”

“I thought they were your mother’s friends?”

“I thought so, too,” I said. I stood up straight, forcing a smile onto my face. “But anyway, I need to get to work, Master Cooper. Paisley’s waiting on me to refit her shop.”

“Oh! That’s one customer I would never dare keep waiting. Better get to it.”

Using timber and other materials from the craftstead’s supply shed meant that I had to record them in our business accounting books, which were now tidy, up to date, and most importantly, accurate, thanks to Jester spending a full week going through them. Cooper was so happy with Jester’s work that he even started recording his own income and expenses when they occurred, rather than weeks later when he needed something to do while sitting on the loo.

“That means I have to charge you for the work,” I told Paisley, after borrowing Cooper’s artificed cart and taking the timber down the hill and to my friend’s store. I left the timber in the cart outside for now, since we’d have to move all Paisley’s stock and shelves out before bringing anything else in.

Paisley was already packing up her vases and jugs, wrapping them in tissue paper and placing them carefully in a box. “I wouldn’t dream of you doing it for free.”

“I feel a little bad, with us being friends and all, but this is going to take quite a lot of materials.”

“My philosophy is that if someone you know owns a business, then you pay them what they deserve.”

“Can you really aff…”I began, unsure about actually saying my question without questioning my friend’s business.

“Can I what? Make you a cup of tea? Buy us some lunch? Dance a jig?”

“This is going to cost quite a bit, Pais. Especially if we’re doing the plans from version fifteen.”

“Fifteen point five,” said Paisley. “Sorry. I thought of something else while you were gone.”

“It’s just, I know what you said about how most new businesses fail within three years, and I know things haven’t been progressing as fast as you wanted.”

“Lewis, I’m fine, really! Every store has its ups and downs, that’s all part of the fun. Remember the brewery that Uncle Jace and I invested in?”

“Hoppity Hops?”

She nodded. “They got a contract to supply the Easterly Ranger’s Guild with beers, wines, and cordials for their various annual Yulthor parties. That’s a big, big contract. So let’s say that I have a nice, and unexpected, chunk of gold set aside for my store.”

Paisley’s plans called for me to turn her back stockroom into a space fit for customers. At the same time, she wanted to remodel her current customer space by removing the counter and repositioning it in the newly refurbished area. This, in turn, meant that I would have to convert one of the rooms upstairs into a stockroom for Paisley. At the same time, I had a little idea to add some artificeric flair to her plans. Something that wasn’t Paisley-approved and thus risked landing me in hot water, but which I was sure she’d appreciate.

With great reluctance, Paisley flipped the sign on her store door from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed.’ Together, we carefully moved all of the goods upstairs, safe from the inevitable sawdust and other crafting messes that were soon to occur.

“Are you sure you can finish it today?” she asked me.

“I could come back this evening and work then instead, if you’d prefer to keep the shop open for now,” I offered.

“No, no, you don’t need to do that. Although…” she shook her head, “No, that wouldn’t be fair on you.”

“I should get most of it done today. If I need to work into the evening, that’s what I’ll do. I promise.”

“Okay, thanks, Lewis. Because tomorrow’s Saturday, and that’s always a busy day…”

“Trust me.”

For the rest of the day, I used the Craft ability from my Simple Craft and Forge skill tree to make all the differently sized and differently shaped shelves according to Paisley’s plans. Some of them were just long, straight shelves, while others were an ‘L’ shape so that they fit snugly into the corner of the room. This meant that her existing shelves were left spare but luckily, Percy Tattersall was looking for more storage space for his books, and Paisley had already struck up a deal with him.

Next, I created the new, larger sales counter, which Paisley wanted to be big enough to fit two people for that inevitable time when her store really started earning gold and she needed to hire an extra staff member. At the end of the counter was a liftable wooden hatch which could double as a giftwrapping section when it was left down.

As my Craft ability was level eight, the Five Factors of crafting worked heavily in my favor, and I had, for that afternoon at least, tamed the randomness factor. Not a single piece of crafting failed, not a scrap of wood was wasted. When all the shelves were made and my timber supply was almost used up, I stood in the center of the store and admired my work.

“Not bad,” I said aloud.

Not only could I enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done, but a reward came to me in the form of token text.

Craft ability leveled to 9

[Simple Craft and Forge skill tree]

- Quality of finish improved

- Strength increased in all woodwork joints

- Crafting stamina increased

Simple Craft and Forge was one of the three remaining skill trees that I needed to level to intermediate. The other two trees were Simple Alchemy, and Simple Tinkering. Since I already had Intermediate Enchantment and Intermediate Disenchantment, all I needed to do was bring my other skill trees up to scratch, and I would become an adept-ranked artificer.

Still, a quick glance at those skill trees showed me that I had a long way to go.

Simple Craft and Forge

Level: 3

Abilities

- Craft

Level: 9

Perk: Chef’s friend [Make better cooking-related stuff]

Perk: Homely Crafter [Home-based crafted items will be of better quality.]

- Repair

Level: 2

- Upgrade

Level: 5

Perk: Sturdy Stuff [Any load-bearing-based upgrades are 2x effective]

- Dismantle

Level: 1

- Craft Invent

Level: 2

- Analyze

Level: 1

Simple Tinkering

Level: 1

Abilities

- Tinker

Level: 4

- Mend

Level: 1

- Tinker Invent

Level: 1

Simple Alchemy

Level: 1

Abilities

- Identify Potion

Level: 1

- Create Potion

Level: 2

- Create Tincture

Level: 1

I tapped my token bracelet, making my skill tree token text disappear. With the new shelves in front of me, I began using my Upgrade ability on them, strengthening their joints and perfecting their finishes. This was a fairly standard part of the crafting process, but something strange happened this time.

In two cases, my Upgrade ability had an unintended effect. On one of the ‘L’ shaped corner shelves, my ability turned the well-built yet aesthetically simple shelf into a more ornamental piece, giving it a fancy trim along the top that meant it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a grand library. I ran my finger along the new adornment, following its smooth curve as it rose and fell along the shelf top.

“Damn it,” I said.

I was annoyed, but not because anything had gone wrong. Quite the opposite. Now that my Upgrade ability had completely transformed two of the shelves aesthetically, it made the rest of them look dull. Well-built, sure, but nothing special. Just a few minutes ago I had been happy with my work, and now it didn’t seem enough. I wanted all the shelves to look just as good.

Paisley needs this finishing tonight so she can work tomorrow. Can I really waste time on shelves I’ve already finished? I thought. But think of how happy she’d be if all the shelves looked like that…

Booming footsteps came from the staircase above my head. A stranger in the store might be forgiven for thinking that an elephant would soon appear in the doorway, but I knew it was Paisley. For some reason, she always clomped down flights of stairs.

I headed to the doorway before Paisley could enter the main store area. “Hey! You said you weren’t going to look until I was finished!”

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, miming covering her eyes. “Chris, Jester, and I are going to the King’s Head. Do you want to join us?”

Paisley’s words acted like bait, making shoals of hunger swim to the surface of my belly. It would be easy to call the job complete. I had made the shelves and the counter, after all, and all I technically needed to do was move them into the positions that Paisley had planned.

But I really wanted to make this store refurbishment special. I still had the bonus artificery I had already planned on doing, and I couldn’t just have two shelves being all grand and ornamental, and leave the others looking dull.

“I’m going to finish up here,” I said.

“Lewis…”

“I’m almost done, I promise.”

“See, now I feel bad. I’m going off to have something to eat, and you’re stuck here alone, working in my store. It doesn’t seem right.”

“Part of the crafter’s life. How many times have you opened your store late while Chris and I went for food?”

“That’s true. And I did miss Jester’s dinner.”

I nodded. “And how many times has Chris had to work late in Perentee and lose out while we go for dinner? It’s just the way it goes sometimes. Besides, right now, you’re the paying customer and I’m the worker. Seriously, Pais, go meet the others. If I finish up in time for food, I’ll hurry over. At the very least, I’ll meet you all for a beer.”

With Paisley gone, the store seemed lonely and dark. Outside, the darkness from Coiner’s Way pressed in, making me all too aware that the other traders were also closing their shops and heading to the tavern, to their homes, or in the case of Lee Hunter, to his elderly mother’s house to check in on her. Douggie Fernglass was going from streetlamp to streetlamp and lighting them all up, and I decided to do the same here in the store. After a quick search upstairs, I found three artificed lamps. I set them glowing and placed them around the two customer-facing rooms so that they illuminated the store.

A small part of me wondered now why I found it so easy to stay here instead of going to the tavern. I loved my friends, loved them dearly, and there was nothing better than sharing a meal with them in the King’s Head, especially if we managed to get the table nearest the hearth.

But maybe there was something better. Or at least, something equal. Master Cooper and I were luckier than lots of people, I realized, in that we found great joy in something that couldn’t be taken away from us and didn’t rely on other people. For me, crafting wasn’t just a job, a hobby, or something I merely did to pass the time. Crafting was a place. My happy place. Enchanting miodes into things, creating shelves, doors, and everything else from raw materials. Something about artificery and its guises sang deep to my heart and finished a song in my soul that I hadn’t known was incomplete, as if all my life I’d been humming along to the same verse and hadn’t even imagined there might be another.

With a smile on my face and a promise to myself that I’d make sure to get to the tavern before it closed, I started working. Ideally, I wanted to make the rest of the shelves match the two ornamental ones, since they were so much better. However, I could only use my Upgrade ability on them once, and I had already done that without success. This meant I had to create new ones.

Heading back to the craftstead under an evening sky, I saw a glow coming from the kitchen window of the main house, where Cooper and Janey were enjoying having the house to themselves and sharing a meal together. Cooper tipped his head back and laughed, as he always did at Janey’s stories.

The inner glow I felt at seeing my artificery master so happy kept me warm as I headed once again to the material shed and stocked up on timber. Three wolfhounds joined me as I piled the timber onto the artificed cart, and I allowed myself a few minutes to get swarmed by them.

“Alright, that’s enough now, ladies and gents,” I said. “I’ve got work to do.”

Then, just as I climbed onto the cart and commanded its artificery to work, something strange happened. Bones, the most reclusive of Cooper’s hounds, left the kennel – something he rarely bothered to do – and approached the cart.

I was so taken aback that I didn’t quite know what to do. Ever since I had come to live here, Bones and I had enjoyed a sort of tolerating relationship. In that, he tolerated me feeding him, and I in turn tolerated being the one to do so. He’d never ever sought out my or even Cooper’s company before.

“Bones? Are you okay, fella?” I said.

Without a sound, Bones hopped up onto the cart next to me, and rested his huge, furry head on my lap. I was so surprised I didn’t know how to act. I guessed that there was nothing I should do, really, other than just head into town. None of the wolfhounds ever went into Sunhampton with us – they just didn’t care for crowds. But if Bones wanted to, then he was more than welcome.

“Alright then, fella. Let’s go.”

Back in Paisley’s store, Bones lay on the floor and contentedly watched me work. I was surprised how much I enjoyed having him there; back in the craftstead it was common for a wolfhound or two to snooze in the workshop while I artificed things. But something about Bones…I don’t know. The beast and I were alike. That was what I couldn’t help thinking. Maybe it was stupid, but I saw not just wisdom in his black eyes but also a mirror, and an understanding.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” I said.

A gentle swish of his tail answered yes, Lewis, I am a good boy, but there’s no need to go on about it.

Using my fresh supply of timber, I got ready to create some new shelves. This time, however, I did things differently. Before commanding my Craft skill to begin, I spent a few moments focusing deeply on the kind of shelves I wanted. I pictured them clearly in my head; well-finished shelves made from dark wood, with ornamental trimmings that gave them a classy, library-type feel that fit perfectly with Paisley’s store. Then, I set my ability in motion.

The shop bell rang. Not expecting visitors, I found myself turning with the speed I might use to confront a burglar, my pulse already racing. Standing there was Phil Brownhill, his coat fastened up to his chin. Bones, from his spot on the floor, looked up once and immediately dismissed Phil as resembling any kind of threat.

“I thought I saw lamps on,” said Phil. “I wondered if Paisley was opening her store late again. She works too hard.”

I was surprised to find myself pleased that Phil was here. There was no hot drink debt-related annoyance, none of the irritation I used to feel whenever he walked into the workshop. Instead, I was glad that he’d shown up.

“Haven’t seen you in the workshop,” I said.

Subtly, almost imperceptibly, Phil’s fingers twitched. He put his right hand in his coat pocket, as if to hide his swollen fingers from me.

“Just had a few errands to run.”

That clearly wasn’t the case. I didn’t know why Phil wanted to hide the extent of his arthritis, but I wasn’t going to pry. “Always annoying, right?” I said. “Anything that keeps us from crafting.”

He nodded solemnly, and I felt bad then. Phil loved making model ships, and he was still in the perilous stage where his business might fail at any moment. It must have been gut wrenching for him to not be able to work. I resolved to keep our conversation far from anything related to business, work, or crafting.

“Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

“A hot cider would be grand, if Paisley keeps any around.”

“She’s got more bottles of cider than I can count. We’ll have to pay for them, though.”

“Oh, of course. She and Master Porter invested in that company. Dippity Dop?”

“Hoppity Hops. Sit down on the…uh…well, we moved all the furniture upstairs. Perch on the windowsill, and I’ll get you a drink.”

When I returned with two mugs of hot cider, I was surprised to find Bones not only voluntarily approaching Phil for attention, but sniffing his painful fingers. All the wolfhounds were extra sensitive like that. Cooper, Chris, Janey, and I always knew when a cold was brewing inside of us even before the first sneeze, because the wolfhounds would constantly sniff our noses.

“I thought I’d come for a walk,” said Phil, blowing on his cider to cool it just a little. “I tried reading, but I must have read the same page fifty times. I just couldn’t settle at all.”

“Is everything okay, Phil?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, in the way that people do when everything isn’t fine, but they don’t want to say anything because they think your question was rhetorical. Usually it was, I supposed. Not many people care how you are when they ask ‘how are you?’ but I had meant it. I was really concerned for him.

“Look, I’m sorry to bring this up,” I said. “And you can be annoyed and I’ll understand, but I have good intentions. Have you been to see Healer Brown about your hands?”

“My hands are-”

“They aren’t fine, Phil. Stop being so proud. You’re acting like Master Cooper.”

“Healer Brown is only interested in making gold,” said Phil.

“Now you really sound like Master Cooper. Healer Brown is a good guy. He’s helped Cooper out lots.”

Bones gave Phil’s fingers a lick, promoting a smile from the model maker. This seemed to shake loose whatever inside him had been holding back the truth, and now it poured out. “He gave me a salve, but it hasn’t helped much. We’ve tried half a dozen salves now. Master Porter even paid for a different healer to visit. Then another. Everywhere we go, healers say different things. Some tell me to keep my fingers cold, others recommend a hot soak. I just can’t get a straight answer. It's one of those maladies, Lewis, where not much is truly known.”

“Lots of people have arthritis, don’t they?”

“They do. But for many people, it’s something they can just about tolerate. My case is rather more severe. At least, at the times when it flares up. Anyway, I don’t want to go on about it; that’s why I left the manor. I was just sitting there and brooding.”

“I’ll shut up, then,” I said.

“Do you mind if I stay a while and watch you work?”

“I’d be glad of the company.”

With Bones and Phil acting as my audience, I got back to my work. My Craft ability was still locked in creating the shelves, so I busied myself by manually applying a layer of varnish to the two shelves I was already happy with.

When the rest of the shelves were ready, I inspected the finished results. Six were ornamental looking and matched up to the vision in my mind, and just needed a little more care and attention to make them perfect. I used Upgrade on the remaining two, which in turn changed their appearance to match the others.

This new spot of crafting didn’t level up my Craft ability, but it was enough to take my Upgrade ability from five to six, inching my Simple Craft and Forge skill tree just a little bit closer to level four. From there, I wouldn’t be a million miles away from Intermediate.

“There we go. A full set of antique shelves,” I said.

“They look grand,” replied Phil. “I’ll help you move them into place.”

“But your hands…”

“The pain is there either way. Best I keep busy. Besides, I don’t want Paisley to think I just sat here drinking cider while you worked. I know that’s exactly what I did, but there’s no reason she should think that.”

“Phil, you’ve been at Paisley’s beck and call ever since she moved to the manor. I don’t think she begrudges you a rest.”

He stood up and stretched his arms above his head until his joints clicked. “Alright, then. Where are we moving them?”

Together, Phil and I dragged shelves here and there, trying our best to get them in line with Paisley’s plans. Phil told me about the ideas he had for the next few model ships he wanted to make, speaking about them with such enthusiasm that I found myself wondering if perhaps I should take up model making, even though it had never interested me before. I also kind of wanted to take a journey on a ship. An old galleon with huge, billowing sails and lots of rigging. I could get a captain’s hat, and maybe a compass that…

“Lewis! Your end is tipping over!”

“Oh, sorry,” I said.

By the time we were done moving the shelves I had a sheen of sweat on my forehead, and my arms were aching from the effort. Phil huffed, his face red.

“You know what? I think that just about did it. I’ll sleep now, sure enough. I’m going to head back to the manor, if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest. Oh, Paisley and the others are in the King’s Head, if you want to stop there first?”

Phil paused, caught between the tavern and the manor, no doubt weighing up his desire for another cider versus the sweetness of the special kind of sleep you only enjoyed when you had worked yourself tired.

“I think I’ll join them. Why not? What’s one more tipple before bed?” Fastening his coat, he paused at the doorway. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be right there,” I said. “I just need to finish up here.”

The next time I looked up at the clock, I was surprised to see that it was lying to me. According to those damned deceptive hands, it was two minutes to midnight. That couldn’t have been possible. Phil had only just gone, hadn’t he?

I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised that so much time had passed. After arranging the shelves downstairs, I had worked on my little artificery project. With just enough crafting stamina left in the bank, I had crafted and enchanted a shelf system in Paisley’s new upstairs stock room. The shelves there were aesthetically simple, but they held the wonder of miodes within them. Using miodes I’d taken from the craftstead stores, I first artificed the shelves so that they held ten times their capacity.

Next, I placed another shelf of the exact same dimensions downstairs, behind the sales counter. Using artificeric anchor miodes, the same as I had used in my last notebook attempt, I made a link between the sales shelf and the stockroom shelf. Now, anything placed on the shelf in the stock room could be retrieved from the one behind the sales counter downstairs.

Testing it, I placed a vase on the shelf in the stock room. Heading downstairs, I went behind the sales counter and to the shelf where the vase was waiting.

“See that, Bones? It works!” I said, receiving no reply one way or the other from the hound.

A smile spread across my face. It wasn’t a major thing; all the shelf did was save Paisley from having to walk up and down the stairs when a customer asked for something. It wasn’t even complicated enough artificery to level me up. But the shelves did what I wanted them to, and that was the heart of artificery, after all. Matching a need with an outcome. I was pleased with it.

“Sorry, Bones,” I said, turning my attention away from the shelf. “I wanted to get to the tavern in time for last orders. I could have bought you some beef scraps. But it’ll be closing now. I guess we’d better head home.”

Just then, the shop doorbell rang once again, and a herd of people streamed in. Paisley, Chris, Phil, Jester, all my very best of friends, all smelling strongly of beer and cider. Despite the brewery fumes they gave off, they didn’t seem drunk. Only Phil seemed to be affected by the alcohol. As ‘head of house’ of the Porter manor, Phil had spent many years living a quiet, sensible life crammed with rules. These days, now that the only rules he needed were his own, he’d relaxed his stance on beer and cider. His liver, however, hadn’t built up sufficient tolerance, and this meant that just a cider or two was prone to make Phil act strangely.

“Oh, the goblin’s life is full of strife,” he sang, waltzing through Paisley’s store, “He needs a wife! He needs a wife!”

“He’s learned that from Coops,” said Chris. Then, “Hey! Bones! Didn’t see you there. What are you doing here, pal?”

Bones lifted his head and looked at Chris, then Phil. Deciding he didn’t like what he was seeing, the hound rested his head on his paws and shut his eyes.

“Guess he wanted a change of scenery,” I said. “He just jumped on the cart and came here with me.”

“Speaking of carts, please tell me it’s here. I can’t face the walk home tonight.”

“You and Paisley can take it. Bones and I will walk back.”

“Did I ever tell you you’re the best bloody guy in Sunhampton?” said Chris.

A blur of motion crossed my path as Phil danced in front of me and then around the shelves. “The goblin’s wife is so refined, I have a thought to make her mine!”

“Those aren’t the words at all, Phil,” said Jester. “On second thoughts, perhaps Paisley and Phil ought to take the cart?”

Chris shook his head. “Dealing with this guy will take two of us. We can fit on the cart, with a squeeze. Or Phil could ride on the back. Anyhow, we brought you something. Jester?”

“Oh. Right.”

Opening his satchel, Jester took out a bottle of King’s Crown – my favorite beer in the tavern – and a bowl sealed by a glass lid, which had condensation on it. Opening the lid, Jester released the fragrance of chicken and noodle soup into the air.

“Zakariya said we have to return the container tomorrow, so please don’t break it,” he said.

“This is for me?” I asked.

“I have some spring rolls, too. Hold on a second.”

The shoals of little hunger fish that Paisley had baited hours earlier weren’t little at all. They were sharks, it turned out, as I breathed in the aroma of the still-warm food. Huge sharks that were ready to launch into a feeding frenzy.

“C’mon, Phil. Sit down,” said Chris. “I swear, next time, it’s one cider for you. Until you find your drinking legs.”

“I feel rather ill, Carl.”

Chris shook his head. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”

He put his arm around Phil’s shoulder and led him towards the door. Just before they reached it, Phil turned around and stared at me.

“You’re a bloody good fella, Lewis, I tell you that. I tell you that right now. I’m sorry for my rules and my stupid…book. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“I know you don’t, Phil. I’m not the easiest person to work with, either.”

“Nonsense! You’re a bloody good fella. I’ll tell you that. I’ll tell you that right now. I’m sorry for my rules and my-”

“Come on, Phil,” said Chris.

While Chris took Phil outside into the sobering Sunhampton chill, I grabbed a stool from behind the sales counter, sat down, and started devouring the small feast they’d brought back for me. Jester took the stool next to me.

“You know, when I worked at Jenkins and Clyde Accountancy in Hattersdale, we never went out for drinks after work.”

“No?” I said.

“Or so I thought. One night, after work, I was walking home and decided on a whim to take a different route. I think I was just feeling extra adventurous that night. It took me by Diogo’s Grill, a restaurant on Greenshire Way. It serves the most delicious steaks. The best you will ever eat, I promise. Anyway, I walked past and what did I see? The entire office enjoying a meal together. I hadn’t even been asked.”

“Thagh’s terrrigh Jeghter,” I said.

“What?”

I swallowed my spring roll. “That’s terrible. Why’d they do that?”

“They said it was all arranged while I was on vacation, and they forgot to mention it when I returned to the office. That doesn’t really explain why nobody even talked about the meal they were going to have that night. A full working day, and it wasn’t mentioned, not once. Strikes you as strange, doesn’t it?”

I dipped my spring roll in chili sauce. “Jester, when someone shows you that they’re a complete ass, believe them.”

“In the city, people used to talk about folks who lived in small villages like Sunhampton. I always got the impression that small communities were rather…closed. You know, to outsiders. Cold and unfriendly.”

“It’s definitely cold. Spring roll?”

“Thanks, but I ate eight of them in the tavern. No, what I’ve found is that city folks talk a whole lot of crap, if you’ll excuse my foul language. Ever since that day when I first visited Aunt Sheila’s cottage, I’ve been made to feel nothing but welcome here.”

“We’re glad to have you,” I said.

And I meant it. Jester might have entered my life as a customer looking to have the enchantments on a strange lamp identified, but now I could confidently say that we were good friends. The pair of us shared a bond that the others couldn’t fully relate to; neither of us had known our fathers, and our mothers had passed away. It was a grim thing to bond over, certainly, but I always thought that from the darkest shadows came the brightest light.

Not that that sentence made any sense whatsoever, given what shadows were. Still, it sounded nice in my head. Maybe I ought to write a book of quotes, I thought to myself. I decided to test the new, insightful-sounding saying I had just made.

“From the darkest shadows comes the brightest light,” I said.

“That’s beautiful, Lewis. Very profound.”

I had been so preoccupied by my meal and the drunken ship maker dancing around the shop, that I hadn’t noticed Paisley going upstairs. I only realized she had when I heard her loud, thumping steps walking back down again.

“Hells, that is that an elephant?” said Jester, standing up.

“It’s just Paisley.”

“But it sounds so-”

“I know. I don’t know how she does it.”

When Paisley joined us in the newly-refurbished back customer room, I was shocked to see that her eyes were watering. Only a little, but it was there all the same. Then, I reminded myself that she’d been to the tavern. Sometimes, when she drank beer, her eyes watered and she sneezed a lot.

“Lewis…” she began. “You’ve done such a good job. This is so…it’s exactly what I wanted! More so!”

If a deranged healer had cut me open right there in the store, he’d have released a sunbeam from my heart. There was nothing better than a happy customer, and no happy customer better than my best friend.

“I couldn’t have done it without plan fifteen point five,” I said.

“No, no, you’ve gone beyond the plans. I mean yes, I provided the structural elements that make the layout so effective. There’s no point denying that is there, Jester?”

“Certainly not,” agreed Jester.

“But the shelves look so great. They must have taken you ages.”

“They did take a while. Did you try the stockroom shelf?”

“Try it?”

I smiled, savoring that moment almost everyone feels when they know they’ve done something nice for a friend, and are anticipating their reaction. Sure, you shouldn’t do something nice or give a lovely gift just for their reaction, but there’s nothing wrong with feeling good about making your friends or family happy. That was how I always saw it.

“Go and put something on the shelf upstairs.”

Paisley – or was it a herd of bison? I couldn’t tell – clomped upstairs, and then back down again shortly after.

“So I put a book on the shelf but nothing happened. I’m not sure what I was looking for.”

“Did you check the sales counter?” I said.

“Check it for what?” she said, before her eyes widened. She ran over and snatched up the book, which was the copy of ‘G’ythor the Barbarian and the Terrible Tower of Blood, Guts, and Other Various Bodily Fluids,’ that she was reading for the second time. “How did you do that?”

“The magic of artificery,” I said. “Though don’t ever tell Cooper I called it magic. He hates that.”

Chapter 9

A couple of days later, all my alchemy ingredients were finally cured, dried, and otherwise ready for use. The presence of Stacey Logan and her crew in the craftstead yard meant a muting salve would still come in handy but, annoyingly, I couldn’t start on it yet.

Customers came to the craftstead in trickles or floods, there was no in-between. Right now, it was monsoon season. In two days, no less than eight different people walked up the steep hill to the craftstead and requested our artificeric help. Fee-Fee Turnbull, who lived in town with her two teenage children, had bought a wardrobe that used to be enchanted so that it cleaned and dried the clothes you put inside it, but the miodes had worn away now. She wanted the ‘magic putting back’ as she worded it, prompting Cooper to bite his tongue. As well as that, two guards from the Full Striding city garrison wanted an artificer’s help in disenchanting the traps in a wizard’s tower which had been seized due to unpaid taxes.

“The blighted mage is in a cell now,” said the guard, “But the stubborn old git still refuses to pay, and he refuses to disable all the magical jiggery he’s left in place in his tower. Why mages live in those ugly things, I don’t know. Me? I love my little house and my little garden. Imagine walking up all those stairs just to go to bed.”

Since this was a job that required high level artificery, Cooper decided that he better take it for himself. This meant I was left attending to all the lower-skilled jobs by myself.

For the next few days, I replenished the miodes in the enchanted wardrobe. I detected and identified the enchantments on a trove of miscellaneous antiques and junk that Pickle Pulvers, one of Cooper’s old friends, had bought at an auction. This was how Mr. Pulvers made his living, traveling from one bankrupted business to another, from one estate sale to the next. He bought masses of artificed items at auctions and then asked Cooper and me to tell him what they actually did.

My new status as an initiate artificer meant I could easily handle these jobs and more besides. As the sun rose and fell over the craftstead, I worked and worked. One job required me to create a new chair for Connor Perry, the postmaster, who was suffering from chronically overtightened muscles in his right thigh, resulting in him starting to walk with a limp.

“Seelka’s had to go back home for a while. Poor girl. Her dad’s sick,” said Connor. “Shame, because she was growing into a good assistant. Means I’m out doing deliveries again. Only, my leg’s playing up.”

“Did you visit Healer Brown?” I asked.

“He was at a healer conference in Stow. His assistant, Nissa, took a look, though.”

“Nissa? What happened to Ted?”

“Didn’t you hear?” said Connor. “He got offered a job as head healer in his own practice. North of Tarrin, I think.”

“Oh. He didn’t say goodbye.”

“Left suddenly, he did. Anyway, Assistant Healer Nissa gave me a pain remedy and told me to look into a fancy artificed chair that massages your muscles while you sit. I figured I could have it in the office, behind the counter.”

So, I made the chair for Connor to help unwind his tightened muscles. When that was done I upgraded all the enchantments in Mrs. Grant’s bakery oven, which were supposed to halve her baking time but had been slowing down lately. That wasn’t so surprising; the oven was eight years old, and its miodes had begun to break down. I disenchanted it completely, oiled the miode holes, and enchanted it with fresh ones.

“Good as new,” I told her.

“You’re a good lad, Lewis,” said Mrs. Grant. A big woman, she loomed over me as I kneeled by the oven. White flour dusted her shirt and trousers.

“You don’t need to tip me,” I said. “But if you insist, then I won’t make you feel bad by refusing.”

“Oh, will you not?”

“No. Say if you wanted to give me a box of iced sweet rolls. I wouldn’t turn them down.”

Next, I completely disenchanted then reenchanted some of the tools for the Tillwright family’s farm, much in the same way as I had with Mrs. Grant’s oven. Strictly speaking, their farm tools didn’t need this kind of maintenance yet, since I had only recently enchanted them. I even told Alister Tillwright so as I enjoyed a lemonade in the farmhouse kitchen. But he insisted.

“I’d rather keep on top of it now, than have everything fail all at once during harvest season.”

“That’s sensible, but even so, the miodes don’t need replacing for a few years, at least. We don’t use cheap materials.”

“I’m sure you don’t, Lewis, or I wouldn’t keep giving you work. But still. I feel better when I know everything is tip-top.”

By the time Master Cooper arrived back from the wizard’s tower later that week, I was physically exhausted and my crafting stamina felt chronically drained. That was the problem with not allowing myself a full rest between using up my stamina and then reusing it; short sleeps and quick naps here and there provided only diminishing returns.

“You look worse than Phil did the other morning, after his night at the King’s Head,” said Cooper, setting his traveling bag down.

I took a sip from the mug which contained my fourth coffee of the day. “How was the tower?”

“I don’t want to ever hear about mages or towers again. Not ever. Sneaky, good-for-nothing…they’re dishonest, Lewis. That’s the crux of it. The way mages use magic, it’s sneaky. Not like us. Miodes? You can trust a miode. But a mage spell? Pah. Anyway, is my lovely wife around?”

“She’s talking with Stacey,” I said. “She wanted to make a few changes to the alchemy workshop.”

By now, Stacey, Simon, and Potter had removed the huge boulders from the yard and carted them down the hill and all the way east, to a stone merchant near Hattersdale who would pay good money for the rubble. Where the boulders used to be, the builders had laid a foundation and begun constructing the walls, forming at least the vague shape of the alchemy workshop it would soon be.

“How was business here?” said Cooper. “Did everything go to…err…plan? I’m sure it did.”

Ever since I had become an initiate artificer, it was strange. Master Cooper was treating me differently. Like…well…like an equal. He didn’t criticize me as much, and though he still liked to check my work, he didn’t do so on the presumption that I would have messed it up.

“Everything’s almost finished,” I told him. “There’s maybe a dozen of Pickles’ things that need identifying, and Douggie Fernglass wants an artificeric system designing for the streetlamps so that they become self-lighting. I thought you’d want to take a look at that yourself, Master Cooper.”

“Blimey. That’s a job and a half.”

“He’s only paying for the design. He still needs to present it to the town council and have them fund it.”

“Well, good luck to him there. Ask the council for money and they pucker up like a scared bumhole. I’ll take over now, if you don’t mind, lad. I want to do some good, honest artificery that doesn’t involve mages.”

“No problem, Master Cooper. I have plenty to be getting on with.”

It was true. I really did have plenty of projects and errands. That afternoon, though, they didn’t involve artificery. Instead, I spent the day on Coiner’s Way, browsing shop after shop looking for a present for Jester. Not to buy one - I just needed inspiration for something I could make, that was all. By the time I had toured the stores on both sides of the street, I had a few ideas jotted down in my crafter’s notebook.

At midday I stopped by Paisley’s store, where we enjoyed a sweet roll and a cup of tea while we chatted about many things not worth remarking on, but which were pleasant nonetheless. Paisley seemed content sitting behind her new sales counter, and she’d already arranged her wares in her two customer-facing rooms.

“The cheaper items - my most popular ones, the things that people repeatedly buy like Farmer Twine’s honey and Clive Turner’s jams - are all the way back here,” she said, pointing at the far end of the shop. “You see, I know people will always return to buy those. So what I do, is I make them walk all the way through my shop, passing by my most eye catching or more expensive things in the process.”

“I wouldn’t have thought about doing that,” I said.

“Here at the sales counter, you have what I call the ‘Oh, I need those!’ items. You know, things that you always need to buy, but always forget to. Tape, stamps, that kind of thing. Connor sold me a whole bunch of stamps for cheap.”

I felt that tape and stamps didn’t quite fit the aesthetic of Paisley’s locally-made goods store, but they only occupied a small shelf at the sales counter. If they led to more gold, then it was worth doing. And with Paisley’s merchant expertise behind it all, I was sure the gold would flood in.

“You’re a genius, Paisley.”

“I know! Uncle Jace doesn’t agree when I say it, so I’m glad you said so.”

“I better be going, anyway,” I said, glancing once again at the shelf in front of the sales counter, and spotting a package of black boot laces. “Oh, I need some of those.”

“See? That’ll be two gold and fifty silvers please, my good sir.”

“Thank you, madam,” I said, handing her the coins.

Chris was having dinner at Paisley’s that evening. Jace Porter invited him there more often than Paisley did, which I supposed was a good sign given how unsure of him Jace had once been. Then again, I knew that his motivations weren’t solely to get to know his niece’s boyfriend better. Jace was well aware of Chris’s job as a town crier, as well as the Lore and Rumor Gathering ability that came with his class. For a businessman like Jace Porter, inside information and rumors were as valuable as gold.

Phil and Jester joined Cooper, Janey, and me in the craftstead for our evening meal. Cooper had made a chicken pot pie, while Janey took care of everything else. This was their system, and they seemed happy with it. Janey, despite her alchemy mastery, was a terrible cook. This was another area of her life where different rules seemed to exist. Give her an alchemy project, and she’d procure the ingredients, prepare them, and then produce a salve or elixir beyond perfection. Ask her to make a stew, and it came out tasting like soil and burned leather.

This being the case, she had struck a deal with Cooper where if he made the food, she’d either buy dessert or wash the dishes afterward. And since she hated washing dishes, this meant she spent a lot of gold at the Sunny Café buying whatever cake or pie Spruce Wilkinson had made that day.

“You aren’t walking around Sunhampton with a cup asking for coins yet,” said Cooper, cutting into his pie while glancing at Jester, “So I assume your business is ticking over nicely?”

Jester ate exactly the way you’d imagine an accountant would, with precise cuts, equally balanced forkfuls, and no mess whatsoever. He finished his forkful of pot pie, wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, then answered, “I had to sell a first edition of the ‘Hamley’s Guide to Amateur Dramatics’. I’m trying not to sell all of Aunt Sheila’s books, but needs must. Still, I feel bad doing it.”

The mention of Hamley’s book stirred up a chill inside me. Only for a moment, then it was gone. I knew the name of that book because Toby, the leader of the Five Fiends, often read it between shows when it wasn’t his turn to drive the carts. This was a reminder to me that the Five Fiends would be here soon, and I still didn’t know what I was going to do. Maybe I would avoid them altogether and go for a holiday in The Cove or Port Vesta or something.

“Well, Sheila wouldn’t have cared, I’ll tell you that much,” said Cooper.

Jester set his fork down, his eyes widening. “You knew my aunt, Mr. Cooper?”

“Knew her? She once beat me in an arm-wrestling contest at the King’s Head. Still don’t know how.”

“Mr. Cooper, this is…do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Master Cooper didn’t know a whole lot more about Jester’s aunt, it transpired. Even in a small town like ours where most faces were recognizable, not everyone knew everything about each other. Cooper told Jester that the books first belonged to Jester’s uncle, Stan, who died seven years before Sheila. He had been an avid book collector, but had actually been in the process of finding a buyer for his collection before he died.

“Think he and your aunt were going to go traveling with the gold,” said Cooper. “Didn’t happen, obviously, but you shouldn’t feel bad about selling them. They were trying to do that, after all. If you ask me, knowing that their nephew, even if they never met you, was using it to follow his dream…well, that’d put a smile on Sheila’s face. Not on Stan’s. He was a miserable git, no offense. A nice chap, but he was always frowning.”

“Oh. Well, thank you, Mr. Cooper. Thank you very much.”

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Jack?” said Cooper. “It’s only Lewis here who’s banned from ever using that name. Can’t let him get too comfortable, can I?”

The next morning, I finally found time in my schedule to do some alchemy. It was gray outside. Gray, cold, and just all-around dismal. I couldn’t have asked for a better day to be tucked inside the cozy workshop with the forge giving off a gentle heat that warmed the room without making it too hot. I wasn’t planning on using the forge today, but Cooper wouldn’t begrudge me employing it this way, since he often did exactly the same thing. I felt bad for Stacey and her crew, though, having to work outside on a day like this. Still, I guessed that was part of their trade. You couldn’t have the joy of working out in the sunshine if you didn’t accept the chance you’d have to do the same in the bitter cold.

In preparation for my work that morning, I had my alembic, bowls, spoons, mortar and pestle, vials, and burner arranged on the workbench before me, on the left. On the right were all the leaves, powders and fungi I had collected and prepared, along with a few odd ingredients that I just couldn’t find in the woods and which I’d had to buy in town. There were no alchemy shops in Sunhampton – at least not until Janey’s was finished – but between all the different shops on Coiner’s Way, I was able to cobble together the ingredients that I couldn’t forage.

So, tools on the left, ingredients on the right. In the center, propped up on a stand like a conductor’s note sheet, I had my 1001 Alchemy Recipes book, opened to the page that held the secrets to the muting salve.

“Okay,” I said, enjoying the fact I could talk through my work aloud with Phil not here, but also concerned that my friend hadn’t returned to work yet. “Let’s see how I measure up against the Five Factors.”

Tools? I was okay there. The alembic that Janey had gifted me was more than enough for a muting salve, and I had used my Upgrade ability from my Simple Craft and Forge skill tree to boost my other standard tools as best I could.

In terms of ingredients, the ones I had foraged from the woods and then prepared here in the workshop were much fresher than Cooper’s powders and dried herbs that I had used before. What’s more, I had taken great care and paid a lot of attention to preparing them properly. I really had done the best job I was capable of, and I just hoped that would translate into their quality when I used them.

The next two factors were my skill level and the difficulty of the project. I was trying to improve my skill level by doing the project in the first place, so that was a non-factor. And the project was within the realms of my current abilities. I was sure of it. This left the final factor - random chance. Something that most crafters would say you couldn’t do anything about.

Or could you?

Early that morning, I had searched through the craftstead house, yard, and storage sheds looking for various items. I rummaged through boxes, opened drawers, scavenged pantries. Now, here in the workshop with me, I had a horseshoe that I had nailed above the door. I had a clover that, although it started life with five leaves, I had pruned to make it four. I hoped that would count. I had also collected a peacock’s feather from one of Cooper’s quills, and Chris had donated his lucky button to me. How it was lucky or where it had acquired its luck from, he wouldn’t say.

“Take care of it,” he told me, while he was getting ready for work. “I was wearing that button when I passed my town crier apprenticeship. I was wearing it when I asked Paisley for a date.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” I’d promised him. “I’ll treat the button like it’s one of my own.”

I supposed that was all I could do, and the only thing left was to get started. I activated my Create Tincture ability, then tapped my foot against the leg of the workbench impatiently as I waited.

Come on…I thought, prickles of anxiety poking my stomach from the inside.

Finally, token text appeared in front of me.

Alchemy failed: Muting salve

I wafted the token text away like it was smoke from burnt toast, though I stopped as far opening a window to let it out. Expecting this, I tried once more, and then a third time. With each attempt, my result was the same.

Soon, I began to worry that I might burn through my ingredients, and I knew that I wouldn’t go through the rigmarole of foraging and preparing more of them again. Not for this damned salve. I wanted to improve my skills, I wanted to be able to concentrate in the workshop, but there was a limit to how far I’d go without just giving in and buying some earplugs.

Sitting on my stool and rocking it back and forth so that two legs raised off the ground and then fell down again – an action that would have prompted Phil to warn me about breaking my neck, if he were here – I tried to think what Master Cooper would do if his attempts failed.

Nothing replied my brain. Because he doesn’t fail.

Okay, so what about Paisley? Not every product she stocked was a success. Sometimes, her window displays didn’t attract shoppers the way she wanted.

Thinking about what my friend would do was the oil that lubricated the lock and allowed the key to turn. Whenever things weren’t sailing on full wind for Paisley, I knew what she always did. Instead of trying more solutions, putting more oars in the water, she did less. She reminded herself of whatever her current project was and she focused on the details, on the minutia, and she made sure she’d done the very best she could before even think about abandoning it.

Feeling motivated, I rocked forward on my stool and then bolted up from it, ready to try again.

“Thanks, Pais,” I said aloud.

For my fourth attempt, I decided against using my token ability to create the tincture for me, and instead worked manually. I ground leaves in the mortar, heated liquids with the burner, mixed powders together. It took much longer, but I soon had a small jar of thick, yellow paste that looked like mustard, yet smelled like soap.

With the tincture made, my token bracelet interpreted the results.

Alchemy complete!

Salve created: [Poor] Muting Salve

A paste that can be smeared on your ears to dampen sounds. The more salve used, the more noise is muted. Level of noise muted and length of time salve works for is determined by item quality.

Smiling, I held my little jar of salve aloft like it was a relic I’d just looted from a tomb. This wasn’t the first piece of alchemy I had successfully completed – I had helped Janey with some of her potions and balms while I studied under her, and I had also created an alchemic lock and key system for a door. It was, however, the first alchemy project I had decided on, prepared for, and then executed completely on my own.

Even better, I soon saw once again that James Trafford’s – one of my mentors – theories of leveling up were proven true. He believed that if a project had a real-life purpose, you would get more experience from it. The muting salve was born from a need for me and Phil to be able to concentrate while the builders were working in the yard. This was the key part.

I didn’t need to make this salve in order to level up. I could have flicked through the 1001 recipes book and stopped my finger on a random page, and tried making whatever potion of tincture was printed there. But since I had created a salve that came from a real need, the experience I earned from it was much greater.

In fact, creating this salve leveled up my Create Tincture ability from one to three all by itself, putting me close to leveling my whole Simple alchemy skill tree to level two. According to my token text, this greatly increased my chances of success when trying to create simple tinctures.

As if my leveling up was a cue, a great crashing sound came from outside, followed by the rhymic thunk-thunk-thunk of three hammers rising and falling at once. The sound was so loud that it competed with my own thoughts in my head, and soon began to seem to me like a huge heart that was pulsing in the craftstead yard.

Dipping my finger into the muting salve, I smeared some on my right earlobe and then on my left. Immediately, the sounds lessened a little as if I had put my hands over my ears. Experimenting with more salve, I was able to get the sounds down to a level where they sounded like the hammers were being used far away, as though a group of stone masons were working on a wall a few miles from the craftstead.

I couldn’t, however, drown them out completely no matter how much salve I applied. Not only that, but the effect began to wear off after just twenty minutes, prompting another application of salve. That was the price of creating a poor-rated salve, I supposed.

Heading out into the yard, I waited for Stacey, Simon, and Potter to pause their hammering. They were working on some of the unsold boulder rubble, having kept back just enough to complete some of the stonework on the alchemy workshop, and had spent the morning shaping it into bricks using the masonry ability that came with their builder class. Near them was a pile of well-formed bricks, and scattered around their feet was a mass of pebbles and stones. Potter’s arms were chalk-white from all the dust, though Stacey and Simon must have been wearing artificed shirts that allowed them to stay clean.

“Morning,” I said.

“Oh look, it’s Mister, ‘I get to work in a nice, warm workshop all day’,” said Potter.

“Potter!” said Stacey.

“Sorry, Boss. I was only joking. Sorry, Lewis.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry about it.”

Stacey, however, wasn’t pleased. “Don’t make jokes about customers. At least, not in front of them. Do it in the King’s Head after work.”

“Got it, Boss.”

Stacey set her masonry hammer down on top of the pile of bricks. “What can we do for you?”

I held up the jar of salve for them to see. “It’s more about what I can do for you. I’ve been thinking about how loud your line of work is. All the hammering and stuff. It must be hard on your ears, so I thought you could use this.”

“What is it?”

“A muting salve.”

“Oh!” said Stacey, a grin forming on her lips. “Some kind of alchemy, is it? Did Mrs. Morgan make that?”

“No, I did,” I said proudly. “Just smear some on your ears, and-”

As I talked, Stacey reached into her pocket and pulled out two earplugs, which she popped into her ear. As Simon and Potter laughed, she said in an exaggerated voice, “What? I can’t hear you!”

I wasn’t just crestfallen; my crest had actually toppled from a great height and shattered into pieces. It wasn’t the joking around that bothered me. Stacey had good comic timing, and besides, I had lived with Master Cooper long enough to learn that light-hearted banter was part of a crafter’s life. You couldn’t take yourself too seriously, which was something that Phil was just beginning to learn. No, it was more that I’d imagined the builders congratulating me on my alchemic genius, and immediately using the salve to protect their ears.

Stacey took the earplugs out from her ear. “Sorry, I don’t mean to mock you, Lewis. But sometimes, the practical solutions are the simplest.”

“I’d usually agree,” I said, “But this was more about me leveling my alchemy than doing things the easy way.”

“Fair enough. I’ll stick with my plugs, if you don’t mind. I don’t much trust alchemy, truth be told.”

“I’ll take some of the salve please, pal,” said Potter.

Whether he was atoning for his joke or really wanted the salve, I didn’t mind. He was asking for an alchemic product I had made, and he would presumably use it. That was enough for me.

“Sure. That’ll be ten gold for a medium-sized jar, five for a small.”

Chapter 10

After this, I worked steadily on leveling up my Simple Alchemy skill tree. First, I made an oil that would dampen out sounds. It was similar to the Muting Salve – in fact it was on the very next page of the book in the ‘auditory pastes and potions’ section. Instead of stopping sounds from entering your ears, however, this oil muted them at the source. This meant it was much more powerful, though it had to be applied very precisely and it worked on a much smaller ‘surface of sounds’, as the book put it.

Using a pipette, I carefully dripped my newly-made Quiet Oil onto the wheels of the artificed cart I’d built for Cooper and Janey. Then, taking it for a test ride down the hill and into town, I relaxed into the driver’s seat and closed my eyes, satisfied that the horrendous squeal that the wheels used to make was gone. Now, it was so quiet that thieves could have used it to rob a bank. Though, I hoped they wouldn’t.

After using my alchemy to solve two problems, I felt myself getting swept up in success. Well and truly caught in an alchemic fever, I spent the whole of the next day brewing up some Friction Fizz. This was a bitter smelling tonic that filled the whole workshop with a peculiar aroma. I could only liken it to the smell of tinker gears rubbing against each other when they hadn’t been fitted correctly.

In the yard, I approached Simon and Potter, who were still building up the walls of the alchemy workshop. Simon was kneeling beside a huge, white bucket and mixing mortar using a stick, and Potter was placing bricks on a line of the gray paste that he’d already spread out. The red bricks were twelve stacks high now, and the mortar work was even neater than Phil’s model making tools when he laid them out on the workbench each morning for daily inspection.

“Looking great!” I told them.

“Thanks, mate,” said Simon.

“Yeah, cheers, pal,” said Potter. “Hopefully Ms. Morgan will be happy.”

“Mind if I collect a few loose stones?” I said, looking at the ground for likely candidates.

“Be our guest,” said Simon. “What’re you up to in there, anyhow? Boss says we’re not supposed to ask. Shouldn’t bother the customers, she says. But, no offense mate, the smells…”

“Not exactly a rose garden, is it?” I said.

“How do you tolerate it?”

“Same as how all the noise doesn’t bother you, I guess. You just get used to it.”

“Or you mix up some fancy paste,” said Potter, looking at my ear. I put my fingers against my earlobe and brushed off the crusted remnants of my last Muting Salve application.

After collecting two handfuls of rubble from the yard, I used a masonry hammer to smash them into tiny pieces. Then, I put them all in a metal basin and poured some Friction Fizz over it. Rolling up my sleeves, I mixed the pieces of grit and the Friction Fizz together, adding a splash or two of water when it became too thick.

Alchemy created: Friction Grit

As the afternoon wore on, I made a slow journey down the sloping hill outside the craftstead and then back up again, taking handfuls of Friction Grit and spreading them over the grass and mud, paying extra attention to the well-worn walking path that ran from the craftstead to the hill’s base. When the friction grit hit the scant patches of ice and covered the grass here and there, they made a crackling sound, and the ice melted away.

“Should I even ask what you’re doing,” said a voice, “Or will I get one of your artificer’s explanations that are very carefully worded to go over the head of mere merchants like me?”

“Hey, Mr. Porter,” I said.

Jace Porter reached out and shook my hand, as was his custom. Whether he’d known you for two days or two years it didn’t matter, he always greeted you with a handshake. A perfectly balanced handshake, it had to be said – Jace didn’t squeeze too hard or too softly, and managed to transfer through this gesture both confidence and cordiality in equal measures. It was strange that a person could be so formal yet manage to be so warm at the same time, but Jace pulled it off. I supposed it was just one of his many skills that made him such a successful merchant.

“I was just gritting the hill,” I told him. “I noticed it getting slippery, what with the ice we’re having, and it was only going to get worse.”

“Oh. Well, thank you, Lewis. You’ve done us all a service there. Do you think you could grit the path to my manor, too? And I hope you don’t mind me saying, but Mabel Tyler’s cottage is a little hard to get to, and she’s not getting any younger…”

“No problem,” I said. It was more work, sure, but Jace Porter had just given my alchemy a real-life need. This would certainly factor into the experience I gained when I made another batch of Friction Fizz, then turned it into Friction Grit.

Even with Cooper and Janey’s cart silenced and the hill made safe, my alchemy wasn’t done. The next day, I had breakfast with Cooper and Chris on the decking, then headed straight to the workshop. The hours whizzed by as I created not just one new alchemical product, but two.

The first was an extra strength cleaning solution specifically designed for glass. According to 1001 Recipes, it was guaranteed to give glass the best possible shine, and wouldn’t leave even a single smear. As I crushed petals, mixed powders, and stirred pastes, I imagined Paisley using the solution on her store windows and finally winning the ‘who has the cleanest store display’ battle against Percy Tattersall.

After that, I got to work on perhaps the toughest alchemy I had ever attempted. This I found not in the 1001 Recipes book, but a tome from Janey’s collection that she’d brought with her from Brunswick. For now, her books were temporarily housed on a bookshelf in the main house living room, next to the coat stand that Cooper sometimes used as a place to air his wet work shirts. Janey’s collection of alchemy books was yet another display of the duality of rules that governed her life; she took great care with them, and had only accepted their current arrangement because her alchemy workshop wasn’t ready yet.

“Feel free to peruse them as much as you like,” she’d told Chris and me. “Just make sure you have washed your hands first, and for the sake of all the gods in the heavens, do not fold down any pages. If you must mark a page, then be civilized and use a bookmark.”

Chris had thanked her for the offer, but I doubted he’d ever have any urge to read an alchemy text. I, on the other hand, had found them very interesting, if a little too advanced for my current understanding of alchemy.

For my latest alchemic project, the collection held just the treasure I needed. Three books from the left of the first shelf, I had found a worn, old tome titled, ‘Hymns from an Alchemist’s Travels.’

This was part autobiography and part alchemy recipe book, written by a famous alchemist named Helena Braithwaite whose career boasted achievements such as being the official alchemist for Duke Norman of West Illing – until he died falling from his privy tower - and developing the alchemic solution that stopped the Port Vesta cliffs from corroding under the constant battering of waves.

The weak sunlight that stole in through the workshop windows didn’t give off much warmth today, though the coals burning red hot on the forge at the far end of the room gave battle against the chill, fighting valiantly without completely turning the tide. The workbench before me bore the scars of a different battle; stains from alchemic liquids that dripped or splashed where they weren’t supposed to drip or splash, heaps of powder here, long smears of paste there. If Master Cooper had seen it he’d have burst a vein on his temple; he was very much of the ‘tidy while you work’ school. Janey, however, wouldn’t have noticed the mess at all. If she had, she would probably enjoy it.

“Knock, knock.”

Paisley was standing in the doorway, holding a white cardboard box that I knew came from Rolls and Dough, having bought hundreds of takeout cakes from there by now.

“Come in.”

“How’s the alchemy game?” she said.

I grinned. “Why is it that you and Jace can pull that off, but I sound stupid when I say it?”

“It’s a merchant thing, I suppose. Sort of like how I would sound silly if I started talking about miodes and stuff. Class lingo is like a comfortable set of pajamas - if you wore mine, you’d look ridiculous. Same if I wore that stained, tatty shirt that you sleep in.”

“Well, what can I do for you this morning, Ms. Porter?”

“It’s afternoon, Mr. Cooper. But I brought you a gift. It’s to say thanks for the shop refit. I’ll also pay you our agreed fee, of course, but this is just a little bonus.”

She handed me the box, in which were two sweet rolls. Not just any sweet rolls, though; these were cinnamon spiced sweet rolls, which Mrs. Grant only sold around Yulthor season.

“Two cinnamon sweet rolls!” I said. “Thanks, Pais. I can have one now, one later.”

“Let’s just skip the part where we pretend you won’t be giving me the second one, shall we?” said Paisley.

As the two of us munched our sweet rolls by the workbench, Paisley looked at all the various alchemy ingredients and tools which were spread out across it. Despite the chaotic mess I had made, Paisley was holding her hand underneath her sweet roll to catch any stray crumbs.

“Trying to level your alchemy?” she asked.

I nodded. “I’m on a roll, Pais. Wait ‘til you see everything I’ve done. Oh, I forgot! Here.”

Setting my sweet roll down, I crossed the workshop and headed to the counter up against the wall, where I grabbed the glass vial of cleaning solution. I tossed it to her. Paisley caught it and turned it in her hand, inspecting it.

“It’s for your glass,” I explained. “Specially formulated. That oughta show Percy Tattersall that he can’t hope to ever have a better-looking display window than you. You just need to put it in a spray bottle.”

“I think I have one from when I was killing the weeds in the backyard,” said Paisley. “You’ve been busy, then?”

“Yup. It’s strange, I’ve been putting off leveling my alchemy for so long. But now that I’ve started, I really like it.”

“I’ve been busy, too. The new shop arrangement is really working out. Now that’s done, I can move onto phase two: new signage, mood-smells, mood-lighting, and even more optimal stock display.”

I didn’t even want to ask what mood-smells and mood-lighting meant. I assumed there’d be a mercantile explanation, but my head was too fogged from my recent alchemy to be able to take in a lengthy trade sermon.

Paisley continued, “I’ll tell you one person who hasn’t been busy.”

“Chris,” I said.

“No. How dare you talk about my boyfriend like that. He works hard, going to Perentee every day. Ringing that big bell every hour. You should hear how much he croaks after a week of reading the news.”

“I was only kidding.”

“I know,” she said, smiling. “Anyway, I was talking about Phil.”

Sighing, I set down my remaining quarter of sweet roll. “Tell me something. What excuse did he give you for not working?”

“Something about waiting for some parts to be sent from his supplier in West Grove, and how he can’t do any more work until then. Only, he hasn’t done anything at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him being idle. In fact, I’ve rarely ever seen him not trying to do two things at once. But he’s just been locked up in his room. Uncle Jace is worried.”

“It’s his fingers,” I said. “His arthritis is getting worse, and Healer Brown and assistant Healer Nissa haven’t been able to help much.”

“I’ll tell Uncle Jace. He loves Phil. He’ll have the best healers in Easterly swarming here before you can click your fingers.”

This stung, since I had never been able to click my fingers. I didn’t know why; Paisley and Chris had both tried to teach me. One afternoon, they’d spent a full two hours showing me the simple maneuver. I just couldn’t do it. My hands or my brain just had a blind spot for it, for some reason.

Somehow, though, I put that tremendous upset aside, wiped my hands on my self-cleaning cloth, and grabbed the copy of ‘Hymns from an Alchemist’s Travels’ and went to hand it to Paisley. Then, thinking better of it, I held it back.

“You better wipe the cinnamon dust off your hands. Janey will lose it if any of her books get stained.”

“Aw, come on. She wouldn’t lose it. She’s not like that.”

“Okay, so she’d be upset, instead. That’s worse. Here,” I said, handing her the cloth.

“I’m not using your tatty artificer’s cloth. Who knows what’s on it?”

“It’s self-cleaning.”

“Even so. Sometimes, I just like doing things the old-fashioned way.”

Paisley headed over to the refreshment counter, where she washed her hands in the sink using a jug of water I’d collected from the pump that morning. Seeing her standing there, a memory flashed before me of Phil standing in that very place, opening his hot beverage debt book and making a tally on it. It came as a surprise to me, but I found myself missing his book, his grumblings over me being too loud, his constant refrains that if we didn’t close the window we’d both catch a cold, despite the foul smell of the model glue he was using.

When Paisley returned to the workbench with clean hands, I handed her Hymns from An Alchemist’s Travels, still open at chapter four.

“Every alchemy recipe that Helena Braithewaite printed had a story to go with it. You know, how the recipe came about, what she did to perfect it. Read this one here,” I said, leaning over and tapping the page.

Paisley’s eyes flicked left to right as she read aloud. “’When I was forty-nine years old, something peculiar happened to me. Easterly’s sky paled with the coming of winter and cobwebs of ice spread across its fields and plains. At the same time, the most nagging pain spread through my hands. Year by year this worsened, always at winter. By the time I was fifty-three years old, I could barely hold my pestle without my knuckles crying out in agony.’”

“Sounds like Phil, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does,” agreed Paisley. “But arthritis is a common malady, isn’t it?”

“Yup, unfortunately. Most healers just treat it with poppy of the mythe or sootheleaf. But Helena came up with a cream that was much more effective.”

Paisley continued reading. “’After a month of daily applications, I found that the pain had retreated to the periphery of my mind, getting my attention only dimly like a dog barking in the night from a house far, far away.’”

She went to set the book down on the counter, then noted the mess and thought better of it and reached across, placing it on the workbench I hadn’t been using.

“It’s great you’re trying to help Phil and all, but how can an alchemist do what a healer can’t?”

“Healer Brown must have a dozen people knocking on his door every day,” I said. “And they’ll all have something different wrong with them. Rashes, colds, sprains, cuts. Headaches, stomach-aches, coughs, ingrown toenails, loose teeth. Healers have to know something about everything, which means they rarely dive too deep into a specific thing. Especially if it isn’t life threatening. If they can give out poppy of the mythe and tick another patient as dealt with, then that’s what they do.”

“Then why didn’t Helena give her arthritis cream recipe to the healers’ guild or whoever tells Easterly’s healers about new treatments?”

“She tried. Only, times were different back then. All the guilds were state owned, and they were fighting with each other for state funding. It wouldn’t have looked good on the healer’s guild if an alchemist was creating new treatments for them. Why bother funding both the healer’s guild and the alchemist’s guild, when alchemists can do both jobs?”

“So all these poor people with arthritis have suffered because of a few petty, stick-up-their-bum guild leaders?” said Paisley.

“Seems that way. Anyhow, I’m going to follow Helena’s recipe and then take it to Healer Brown and see what he thinks.”

It took me several attempts to get the arthritis cream perfected without success, during which time I completely used up my ingredients and had to forage for more. This meant another spell of waiting after I prepared them, while they either cured or dried, depending on the particular ingredient.

Luckily, I had lots of things to be getting on with, since business was really picking up here at the craftstead. Part of it was that small-town, good-natured nosiness that drew people up the hill and to the craftstead to see what the building work was all about. Then, while they were here, they often stopped by the workshop to ask us to attend to some artificeric matter or another.

But that wasn’t the main reason. At Paisley’s insistence, Master Cooper had crafted and then placed a sign at the foot of the sloping hill, which read:

Master Jack Cooper and Initiate Lewis Cooper – Artificers of Renown

If you need something artificing, deartificing or just maintaining, then visit the craftstead at the top of the hill. No job too big, no request too small.

It was pleasing that Cooper had finally given in and accepted the advice that Paisley constantly tried to give him. Even better was that he’d allowed Paisley to paint the text on the sign. I could recognize my friend’s handwriting anywhere, and one of her class abilities was to confer her sales pitches, slogans, and advertising texts with an eye-catching effect.

This wasn’t Cooper turning over a new leaf, though. Getting him to do that would be as easy as training a huge stone boulder to roll over on command. No, I knew what was going on here, because I’d spent more than enough time with Cooper and Janey around the dinner table. Master Cooper was trying to get Janey to agree to keep a better account of her business now that it would be permanently based at the craftstead. Her old practice of letting her businesses run into debt and then just abandoning them couldn’t continue, since her reputation would be forever tied to his.

Janey was just as shrewd as Cooper, if not even shrewder, and had pointed out that Master Cooper wasn’t exactly a businessman on Jace Porter’s level. He had neglected things in his artificery business that could be easily improved.

“Such as the sterling business advice Ms. Paisley often gives you,” Janey had said.

Paisley, who had been having dinner with us that night, added, “Yes, Jack. Sterling advice.”

“Ganging up on me again, are you? Lewis, do you want to join them? Or do you think you might stick up for the kind old man who’s kept a roof over your head?”

“I’m staying out of this one, Master Cooper. I think you’re both as bad as each other.”

So, that was why Cooper was making changes. It was hard to give well-intentioned advice to someone, if they knew you don’t take such advice yourself. The sign was only just the start of it, it seemed. He’d also placed an artificed bell on the sign, attaching it to the post with rope. I picked up the bell and shook it, making it ring.

Movement from the top of the hill attracted my attention. I watched Cooper’s artificed cart leaving the craftstead and descending down the hill. Most pleasingly, I noted that the wheels were completely silent.

This had answered yet another of Paisley’s observations: “Customers don’t want to walk all the way up the hill to visit you,” she had said. “You’re lucky that you’re the only artificers in town. If a store opened up on Coiner’s Way, you’d lose all your business before you could blink.”

So, even with these small changes, we found our little artificery workshop getting busier and busier. Not just with Sunhampton locals, either. People visiting our town to hike Trecher’s Pass on dry days would often come to the craftstead first, drop off whatever item they need artificing or deartificing, and then collect them at the end of the day. This made for a busy workshop and a growing waiting list of customers. Neither Cooper nor I were happy with having to rush our work, so this list just kept on growing.

“Think we need to learn the art of saying no, lad,” Cooper said, as he added yet another customer request to our work diary.

Paisley shook her head. “Never turn a customer down,” was another piece of advice she gave us. “Within reason, of course. If a customer wanted you to build a tinkered machine that can fire a thousand poisoned flame arrows in a second and said they wanted to use it to go to the factory where they used to work and teach their boss a lesson, you should refuse.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Ms. Porter,” said Master Cooper.

A few mornings later, I was in the workshop. Bones, who after years of being a doggy recluse was now my daily companion, was sleeping in the bed under the workbench. The wolfhounds used to share this bed in the warm workshop on a scheduled system that, incredibly, they seemed to have worked out by themselves. Now, however, the bed belonged to old Bones.

A ringing sound drew my attention to the workshop window, which looked out onto the yard where Simon and Potter were sitting side by side on a bench overlooking Master Cooper’s pond, eating their lunchtime sandwiches. The pair took turns in making their lunches for each other, and had even offered to cut me in on the deal. I refused, not wanting to get into another food or drink related debt system.

At the edge of the craftstead where the yard met the summit of the hill, our artificed cart rolled into view. It was nice that it was now so quiet that a bell was needed to announce its presence, but at the same time it had become something of a sign of trouble for me. The appearance of the cart usually meant a new customer, and right now I had more work than I could handle.

When I took off my artificery apron and headed outside, Potter raised his hand to me.

“Hey, Lewis.”

“Hey, Potter, hey Simon,” I said. “How’s the building game?”

“It’s, uh, good, thanks, Lewis.”

The cart came to a stop, and a man climbed off. He was heavyset and wore a coat tailored in the style that many Sunhampton locals would term ‘city fashion.’ The man paused, almost as if he expected a footman or butler to arrive from somewhere and help him down off the cart. When nobody did, he carefully heaved his weighty frame onto the ground. He ran his hands quickly up and down his coat and pants, brushing away the dust.

Across the yard, Potter nudged Simon. Simon, holding a half-eaten sandwich, watched our new arrival with a glimmer of a grin on his face. The stranger wasn’t the type you’d normally see in Sunhampton, not at all.

Watching him, I began to get this tugging feeling inside my chest, as though my body was trying to tell me something. Only, I didn’t know what. Jester, who had recently started meditating, was forever trying to get me to ‘listen to myself.’ Maybe I ought to have listened to him, too.

Soon, though, I didn’t need to rely on vague feelings. The man turned fully in my direction. Time seemed to slow as he did, as if the world were turning at half-speed, drawing out the moment that was, for some reason, putting flutters of nerves in my belly. Then, when the newcomer was finally facing me head-on, I found myself looking at someone I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Chapter 11

Toby Purcell, known as Old Bear, Saucy Toby, and Red-Faced Tobias - for various reasons - had aged in the last couple of years. That seemed obvious to say, but he looked much older than the time should have accounted for.

That was my first thought. But then, as he crossed the yard and approached me, I realized that he hadn’t aged so much. Actually, he had merely stopped fighting it, and nature had balanced out upon his features. Gone was the makeup he used to wear not just on stage, but in day-to-day life. His hair, once as golden as the sun, had now turned its natural gray, no doubt after Toby had stopped giving it a monthly visit from the Alchemical Dye fairy.

Seeing him brought back a bowlful of memories with a side serving of feelings along with it. Sights and sounds flashed through my mind like pages of a book fluttering one after another as whoever was in charge of the story tried to skip to the last page. I saw Toby on stage, performing one of the many soliloquies he always wrote for himself. Toby regaling us all with a story as we sat around a fire, our wagons parked to form a barrier from the wind. Me snuggled up next to my mother, the rest of the Fiends sitting apart, sipping on the pale ale that Cobby used to brew in the back of his wagon. Then I remembered the acting lessons that Toby sometimes gave me. For a while, I was his little project, and he wanted to get me on stage as soon as my mother said I was ready. Toby taught me how to deliver lines, and to stand in the right places at the right times.

“Be alive between your lines,” said Toby, in one of his many, many pieces of advice. “Don’t just be a character waiting to have his say.”

Then the day had come when they finally gave me a part in a play. The Ransom of Sir John Whyte, it was called. It was only a small part. I was to enter a scene, deliver a message to Toby, who of course was playing the King, and then leave. Only, on the night, when it came to my part, I froze up. An audience of fifty in the village of Sleeping Range watched a young Lewis stand there like his feet were made from ice, trying to say the few lines I’d memorized, but finding that my throat had closed its drawbridge and refused to let anything in or out.

“Don’t worry, little Lewie,” Toby had said later. “It can happen to anyone.”

That was Toby; as leader of the Fiends, he knew how to make people feel better after a mishap on the stage. But he also had a temper. When a play went wrong, he didn’t spare his rage when talking to the more seasoned members of the troupe. If he was unhappy with his own performance he could sulk for days, maybe weeks if it happened on the last performance of a play’s run and he couldn’t immediately counter it with a good performance.

Above all that, seeing Toby here in the craftstead just felt wrong, like one spider crawling onto the web of another. He was from my old life, and this was my new one. The two shouldn’t meet.

Besides, he and the Fiends didn’t come to Mother’s funeral. They didn’t even send a damned card.

That made up my mind. There was no way to deal with Toby without him realizing it was me, but I’d be as short as I could with him, and tell him he needed to come back later when Master Cooper was home.

“Ah, excuse me, young sir,” said Toby, giving a deep bow as though I was an audience member clapping at the end of a show.

“This isn’t a good time. If you come back later, when Master Jack Cooper is home-”

Toby took a few steps toward me, crossing the yard confidently like it was a wooden stage. “You have the look of an artificer about you. Yes. If I was playing an artificer in a play, I might dress as you do in old, tatty clothes. Cover myself in the stains that serve as marks of my work. Yes, you’re an artificer, alright. I, Toby of the Five Fiends, find myself in dire need of your talents.”

It seemed incredible, but Toby clearly didn’t recognize me. He was staring at me, he’d talked to me, yet there wasn’t a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Had I really changed so much over the last couple of years?

It didn’t matter. This was perfect. It meant I could find out what he wanted and then get rid of him. Whatever artificery work he needed, I would just report it to Master Cooper, then explain who Toby was and why I didn’t want to deal with him. Cooper would understand.

I took out my crafter’s notebook and my pencil. “If you tell me what it is you’re looking for, I’ll have Master Cooper add your project to the list.”

“List?” said Toby, his voice booming out across the yard. If Potter and Simon had been hammering stones right then instead of eating sandwiches, Toby would still have drowned them out. “A list? My lad, my young fellow, crafter of the artificeric kind, I cannot afford to be merely added to a list.”

Despite myself, I felt an inner flicker of amusement at hearing Toby and his…unique…way of speaking to people when his emotions were heightened. He wasn’t always like this; only when things were going very well or very badly.

“We have a lot of customers, and it wouldn’t be fair to just put your job, whatever it is, at the top. But the sooner you tell me what you need, the sooner we can begin.”

“Fine, fine.”

“Okay, so-”

“Here?” said Toby. “We’re going to discuss it here in the yard, where the wind doth bite, and the cold has teeth even larger, and the sky watches from its gray throne, pitiless and lacking remorse?”

It seemed I wasn’t going to be able to get rid of him as quickly as I would have liked. “The workshop is just over here,” I said.

The second we entered the workshop, Toby walked around, fascinated. He breathed deeply through his nostrils, taking in the smell of oil and of spent miodes. He ran his fingertips along workbenches, over tools. All of this, I knew, would be going into that vast store in his memory where he locked away experiences of people and of places to draw on in his acting. The same memory, it seemed, that couldn’t even remember the face of someone who lived with his troupe for years. Then again, he hadn’t even seen fit to visit me when Mother died, so I supposed it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

This made my anger glow like the coals on the forge across the workshop, and I got the strongest urge to just tell him to leave. That, however, would have had the opposite effect. A show of anger would intrigue him, and Toby would become obstinate. He’d dig in. If I wanted him gone as soon as possible, I needed to hear what kind of artificery he needed, and then tell him that Cooper would deal with it as soon as he could.

“Sit down,” I said.

Toby gave a short, yet exaggerated, cough. “My throat is rather dry. And I must take care of it, you see for I am-”

“An actor.”

“Why, yes,” he said, surprised.

Damn it. Why’d I say that? He’ll wonder how I knew that! Should I tell him I’m psychic?

Toby beamed a smile that seemed to wash the room in pale light. “You know of me, then? You have seen one of my plays, no doubt. Good, good. Then you’ll appreciate what I need from you today all the more.”

“That’s right. I think I must have seen one of your plays somewhere.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember. It must not have left much of an impression,” I said.

“Oh. Well. Much of theater’s subtleties are lost on the young.” He coughed again. “My throat, my poor throat. Might I trouble you for a hot beverage?”

“Sorry,” I said. “We don’t have anywhere to make drinks.”

“Why, isn’t that a refreshment counter over there? I see a kettle on a glow stone, and a little jar with tea leaves in it.”

“That’s a jar of artificeric miode leaves distilled from essence of nightpoppy, a very dangerous thing,” I said, with improvisation that Toby himself would have been proud of. “Now, you’re free to take a seat or stand, but I’d like you to tell me exactly what it is you need.”

“I must say, I find your manner with customers to be…relinquisant.”

That was another of Toby’s things. When he couldn’t think of a suitably large word, or he didn’t have a script to draw on, he just made one up and trusted his acting confidence to carry him through.

I needed to remember some acting training of my own. The more polite I was, the quicker Toby would tell me his request, and then take his overly-tailored arse out of the craftstead.

“I didn’t mean to be relinquisant, however the sooner we know what work you need, the sooner we can begin.”

Toby took a pair of glasses from his pocket and put them on. He peered at me through them. I was aware, however, that Toby had never needed to wear spectacles, and instead enjoyed the sophisticated look he felt they gave him. “Do I know you, young sir?”

“Have you been in Sunhampton long?”

“A day or so.”

“Then maybe you saw me in town. Now, if you could tell me what you need?”

Toby slapped his own face with a suddenness and force that surprised even me. “Oh, woe is me! Misery has descended upon me like a wolf chasing a rabbit to its warren. All around me I look and see the hungry face of sadness, its face-”

“Let’s make this simple, Mister…”

“Purcell,” said Toby. “Tobias Luke Purcell, leader of Lisabeth’s Five Fiends.”

Hearing that name was like getting a knock on the head. It completely robbed me of my poise.

“Wait. Lisabeth’s Five Fiends?” I said.

A cloak of sadness crossed Toby’s face, and not the kind he wore on stage, the kind that would fool most audiences but not me, who had seen him in his on and off-stage guises too often to be hoodwinked. A real emotion from Toby was like finding a gold-spotted unicorn, but I was looking at one right now, sure enough.

“Lisabeth was a dear member of our troupe,” said Toby. “A fellow actor, a sister, a friend. Every play we perform pays some, small honor to her.”

“But the posters in town just said the Five Fiends.”

“Alas, years ago, I fell into my cups in a tavern in Stow, and found myself striking up a deal with a printer. Before the evening was out, I had paid for ten thousand posters to be made for our little troupe. He used one of those tinkered presses. We merely need to fill in the name of the play and the place where we are next performing at the bottom. As soon as they are used up, I’ll have a new flyer printed bearing our true name.”

A new feeling began to well in me now, diluting the bitterness, the anger. But I felt like I had to make sure I had really heard what I thought I had.

“You renamed the Fiends after Lisabeth?” I said.

“She was our leading lady,” said Toby, dropping his verbal flourishes altogether, “But she was taken from us.”

“Did…did she have any relatives?”

Toby fixed me a stare. “A boy. A good, honest lad. Not much of a talent on stage, but his heart was in the right place.”

I felt choked up. “Is he in the troupe?”

“We haven’t heard from him in a long time,” said Toby.

I could hardly talk now. “…why not?”

“Because he and Lisabeth left our troupe suddenly. She had gotten married, you see, but we didn’t know that at the time. We thought she had just left us.”

Toby said nothing after this, just stared at me. Gone was even the faintest hint of stage Toby. This was the real him, the one that rarely surfaced even when he was amongst the Fiends. This was Toby stripped bare of needing to please, of the ego that he wore every day like a winter coat.

“Not a day has gone by that we haven’t thought of Lisabeth and her lad,” said Toby. “When we talk about which play to perform next, when we cast roles, when we park our wagons and form a-”

“A barrier to the wind.”

“When we form a barrier to the wind and sip ale while the fire burns.”

The silence that followed was a long one, broken only when Simon and Potter finished their lunch and got to work outside. The sounds of construction breezed in through the workshop windows, but I made no move to reach for my muting salve this time.

After a while, I said the only thing that seemed right. “It’s me, Toby. Lewis. It’s me.”

“I know it’s you, you little oaf. I knew from the second I saw you.”

“Then why the pretense?”

“I’m an actor, in case you didn’t know,” said Toby. “And I’ve seen nicer looks from a python who just got its tail stepped on than when you saw me climb down off that cart.”

“You never visited,” I said. “Never even wrote.”

Toby reached forward and took my hand. “Lewis, your mother didn’t tell us where she was going. When we finally learned that she’d married and moved into a huge manor, we tried visiting. The footman turned us away like vagrants. So, we wrote to her. A dozen letters, in total. At first, asking if she would meet with the Fiends, and then just seeking acknowledgement she was okay.”

“She never mentioned it,” I said.

“Her last performances went badly. I fear I might have been overly harsh with her. She probably wanted nothing to do with me ever again.”

“No. That wasn’t it. I think she never got the letters. I think my stepfather kept them from her.”

“He would do that?” asked Toby.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know what that man is capable of. He’d steal tears from an orphan if he could find a way to make them profitable, and he never liked being reminded about our old life in any case.”

Toby rubbed his eyes. “Our travels soon took us east for the summer. You know how it was with us. By the time we returned to these parts, we learned the terrible news about Lisabeth. Only, it was too late for us to even pay our respects. We tried again to visit the manor so we could talk to you, Lewis. To take you back under our wing, where you belong. But you’d already moved out by then.”

Chapter 12

With the sting gone from my anger, I relented on my refusal to make him a cup of tea. Over a couple of mugs of hot brews, we caught up a little. I told him all about my travels over Easterly, how I got an apprenticeship with Master Cooper, and everything that had happened since then.

It felt right, talking to Toby like this. Like finding an old, favorite sweater hidden in the back of your wardrobe and slipping it on. When I was finished, Toby explained about the Fiends’ struggle to find a new leading lady, their ups and downs as they traveled the country, and their decision to come to Sunhampton.

“We were in a small town called Perentee stocking up on goods,” said Toby, blowing on his tea before taking a sip. “When we heard a town crier delivering the news. This lad had a voice like a rumbling mountain, once he got going. I was in awe. I told Cobby, ‘We need to sign that lad up, Cossy. Get him on the road with us.’”

“Was his name Chris, by any chance?”

“Chris Crier, I believe. Too good to act with the Fiends, as it turned out,” said Toby. “I believe you know him?”

“Chris comes from a long line of town criers. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. He certainly wouldn’t think he’s too good for you.”

“Such a shame, with a voice like that. A voice that carries like thunder.”

“Did Chris tell me about you?”

“He was good enough to have a beer with us in a tavern. The Shepherd’s Rest, I believe it was called. Lovely pies. He told us a little about the place where he lived and the two artificers he shared his home with. Little details began to stick out. It was Mel who caught on first.”

Mel Goodyear had the fewest acting responsibilities among the Fiends. She wrote scripts, designed sets, organized cues, and everything else. She used to amaze us with her ability to completely memorize a script in one reading, using mnemonic techniques that the rest of us couldn’t do half as well. If an actor shouted ‘Line!,’ it was Mel who prompted them about where they were in the script. It was no surprise to me that she was the one to connect Chris’s little breadcrumbs about his life to me, someone whom the Fiends hadn’t seen in a while.

“So that’s why you chose to perform your Yulthor play here in Sunhampton?” I said.

“There are more lucrative places, as you’ll know. But when we heard you lived in this town, could Lisabeth’s Five Fiends really have performed anywhere else?”

I felt touched. Not just because Toby had changed the name of the troupe in honor of my mother, but that they’d even altered their performance schedule just to seek me out. It made me feel foolish that I’d spent all this time being angry at them and thinking they didn’t care about me at all.

I felt like I needed a little time to let these revelations settle in my mind. I was also all too aware of how much artificery I needed to complete today.

“How about you come to the King’s Head tomorrow night?” I said. “You can meet my friends. Chris might be there, too.”

“Well, I did hope I would at least get to tell you about the artificery I needed.”

“Wait, you actually came here to place a work order?”

“I learn that one of my dear friends is an artificer, and I don’t use his services?” said Toby.

“We have a lot of work on our waiting list, Toby. I can add you to it, but it really wouldn’t be fair to bump you to the top.”

Toby set his teacup down. He took a vial of cream from his pocket and began applying it to his hands. The smell of Toby’s eucalyptus hand cream took me back through the years, to a life I hadn’t let myself think about much.

“All I’d ask is that you and Jack Cooper see if you can complete what I need before our Yulthor play. If you can’t, no harm done. If it’s possible you can do it, we’ll place the order.”

“Can you afford it?” I said.

“We have a patron now,” answered Toby. “A rich rug merchant in Stow. We have to entertain his dreary friends and business acquaintances twice per year with a private performance, but it funds our travels.”

I reached into my inner pocket for my crafter’s notebook. Not finding it, I crossed the workshop and checked counter after counter, until I discovered it under an old, oil-stained towel. Sitting back at the workbench, I held the pencil poised above the paper.

“What is it you need?” I said.

“A mere trifle,” said Toby. “We would like a background set that can change appearance, instead of having to travel with half a dozen of them. And we’d like our wagons artificed for better storage space. They’re getting rather cramped, Lewis. I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

“This isn’t a mere trifle. This is some complex artificery, and probably some tinkering, too.”

“We’ll pay. The Fiends aren’t quite as penniless as you might remember.”

“Still…I’ll have to talk to Master Cooper. Until then, I’ll see you and the gang in the King’s Head later, okay?”

Toby rose from the stool. “It was lovely to see you, Lewis.”

“It was nice to see you too.”

I worked on our artificery client list all of that afternoon and a few hours into the evening, in order to account for the time I’d spent talking with Toby. Late that afternoon Master Cooper joined me. After I told him about my meeting with Tobias, the pair of us worked in silent ease, lost in our own projects. An hour before dinner, Janey joined us, too. She had agreed to make an extra strength sealing paste for Joe Phillips. The gutters of the general store in town were leaking, and nothing he tried had worked so far.

“It’s simple alchemy, but I may as well get a start on building a client list,” Janey said. “You boys don’t mind me taking up a little space in your workshop, do you?”

“Not at all, my love,” said Cooper. “What’s mine is yours.”

A ‘little space’ to Janey turned out to be a lot of space by the generally accepted definition, with her tools and ingredients occupying the whole of one workbench. It wasn’t such a problem, since there were four of them in the workshop. Still, it made the place feel a little cramped. All we needed now was Phil to turn up, and we’d have a full house. And to think, there had been a time when Cooper had the main house and workshop all to himself. I wondered if he missed those days, or if they had been lonely. I guessed it was the latter; these days, he was a much happier person, even if he complained about it.

Cooper and Janey quit working in time for dinner. I persevered, determined to finish my work on an artificed sink for the King’s Head tavern. Alec Argyle was promoting their pot-washing boy, Luther ‘Louie’ Vansant, to trainee chef under Zakariya Spencer’s tutelage, and he had decided to artifice the kitchen sink rather than hire someone else to wash the dishes.

The artificery involved in this wasn’t so tricky for an initiate-ranked artificer. In fact, it was more time-consuming than difficult. First, I had to create several tiny holes all around the sink’s surface so that I could place the miodes I’d disenchanted from a room-cleaning scroll. Here was the problem, though. Miodes famously react badly – dangerously – when in contact with water. Not every time, but often enough that an artificer with a sense of self preservation and a fondness for all their limbs wouldn’t risk it.

This meant that the miodes had to be completely water resistant. I accomplished this by making an alchemical paste that I could coat the miodes in. It wasn’t altogether different from the paste that Janey had made for Joe Phillips’s gutters, actually.

With the paste made, I glazed the miodes in it, strapped on my artificer’s goggles, and then used my tongs to carefully place the miodes in the sink one by one.

After twenty or so minutes of concentration, there was a knock at the door. I lifted my goggles and set my tongs down, surprised to get a visitor at the time of the night. The artificed cart was locked away, so they must have had to walk all the way up the hill to get here, too.

Please don’t be another customer…

Opening the door, I was glad to see Jester standing there, holding an umbrella to shield himself from the rain.

“Jester! Come in,” I said, moving aside.

He closed his umbrella and took off his coat, hanging it on the coat stand near the door. “Sorry to call so late.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I was restless, is all. I get like this sometimes. Usually when it’s raining, funnily enough. I tried reading but couldn’t focus on a single page. So, I thought I’d see what was happening at the craftstead. Do you mind if I watch you work for a while?”

I think that Jester sometimes got lonely, living on his own at the cottage. Especially on nights when we were all going our separate ways, with Chris and Paisley out on a date, Cooper and Janey spending time together, Phil not leaving the manor. In all honestly, though, I couldn’t relate. I loved the company of my friends more than anything, but I had the ability to fill their absence with another of my best friends: artificery.

“Mind?” I said, “Of course not. As long as you don’t mind being bored watching me work, either.”

“I think it might be just the tonic,” said Jester.

“Well, sit yourself down, pal. Help yourself to a cup of tea or whatever. I’m just finishing up here.”

He pulled out a stool and then sat on it. “If my eyes don’t deceive me, that’s a sink.”

“A self-cleaning sink. You’d think it would be easy to make, but it can be tricky. The miodes need to be waterproofed before you can use them.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Unlike Paisley, who had no mind for artificery and little interest in its workings, Jester always loved to hear about my projects and all the little, gritty technical details that were, to a crafter such as myself, like the seasoning that makes a dish special. In turn, I tried to listen as best as I could whenever Jester talked about accountancy, or even mathematics in general. I really, really tried. I guessed that my lukewarm interest in the subject either didn’t come across or didn’t matter to my friend, though, and he was just happy that I listened. Besides, I learned a thing or two from him that carried over into my crafting.

“Fascinating,” said Jester, when I was finished explaining. “What now?”

“I just need to test it.”

After heading into the yard and then back a couple of times, I had soon used the water pump to fill the metal sink. Then, I headed into the main house where Cooper and Janey were enjoying an after-dinner coffee. They watched, equal parts confused and amused, as I collected their dirty dishes and cutlery.

“You don’t need to do that,” said Janey. “And besides, you haven’t eaten yet. There’s meatloaf warming in the oven, and the gravy just needs heating for a minute or two.”

“Thanks, Janey. I just thought I’d help out by washing up. I’m good like that.”

“No you didn’t, you crafty little snail,” said Cooper. “You’ve finished the self-cleaning sink for Alec, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “Just need to test it.”

“Well, be careful. I knew an alchemist who lost an arm making a self-cleaning sink.”

I rolled my eyes. According to him, Master Cooper had known approximately fifty-eight artificers who’d lost an arm performing complex artificery. It was always their arm that they lost, too. They never lost an eye or just a finger. Always an arm.

“I’ll be on my guard,” I said.

Back in the workshop, I saw that the sink I had filled with water now had white suds floating in it. Over by the refreshment counter, Jester was drying his hands on a towel.

“You didn’t need to add suds,” I said.

“I always add suds when I wash the dishes.”

“I know, but this is just a test. Anyway, let’s see if the gods of artificery are smiling on me today.”

“Test or not, you can’t wash dishes without suds, Lewis.”

Carefully placing the dirty dishes, knives, forks, and dessert bowls into the sink, I waited for them to settle inside it, then stepped back. Soon, the water began to swirl around, flowing counterclockwise at a rapidly increasing pace and creating a whirlpool of white foam.

“Looks like we’re in business,” I said. “It’ll take a minute or two to complete.”

“Very impressive,” said Jester. “Very impressive indeed.”

“You want one of these?”

“It would certainly cross one daily chore off my list,” he said.

I smiled, feeling that I’d just taken care of a task of my own. I had been trying to come up with a birthday present for Jester, but so far nothing had seemed right. A self-cleaning sink wasn’t glamorous, but if he wanted one, then I could certainly make a smaller version.

I needed to be sure that was what he wanted, though. But how would I do that without making it blatantly obvious that I was fishing around for birthday present clues? Toby and my mother had taught me a thing or two about acting, but I had never really been any good, and this role was surely beyond me. Jester was a clever guy, and the minute I started fishing, he’d know what I was up to.

The solution came as swift as an arrow from Lee Hunter’s bow. The Minor Notebook of Mindreading that I’d made! I hadn’t used them much yet, concerned about the ethical implications of something that could snatch a person’s thoughts. That was why I hadn’t sold them yet, either. I needed to talk to Cooper about it and see what he thought. And I certainly hadn’t wanted to use them on anyone in Sunhampton. What if I learned something about my friends that I’d rather not know? Or if I stole an embarrassing secret from them? Or maybe if the notebooks told me some town gossip that I would have been better off never hearing?

Surely, though, this was a noble application of their artificery? All I wanted to know was whether my gift for Jester was a good one. I had an idea that I could cue the topic in his mind, and that way, stop the notebooks from reading anything else.

I got up from my stool and crossed the workshop to the counter near Cooper’s artificed bookshelf. Kneeling down, I opened the door of a small storage closet where we stored unused projects that might yet be sold. Inside were the minor notebooks of mindreading, next to an ever-glow lamp Cooper had made. Taking one notebook out, I placed it on the counter and opened it up to a blank page.

Now, I just needed to sound natural. “So the self-cleaning sink,” I said. “It’d be pretty good to have one, wouldn’t it?”

Yeah, I thought to myself, that sounded about as natural as a tinkered clockwork sparrow.

“Like I said, it’d certainly cross a chore off my list,” replied Jester.

“It definitely would.”

“Then, again, how many dirty dishes can one person make? It’s not like I’m drowning in food-encrusted plates. In fact, how often do I really wash up?”

“I guess that’s true,” I said.

“And you know something? It’s a good time for meditation, is washing dirty dishes. It gives my brain enough of a thing to focus on, without completely occupying my thoughts. So, actually, I think I enjoy it. I’m not sure I’d want it to be done for me.”

Damn it. I was so sure that a self-cleaning sink was the perfect present for Jester, but he was right. He didn’t produce enough dirty cutlery to make it worthwhile. Plus, would it really be a good present if it robbed him of mediation time?

Something moving on the notebook caught my eye. I glanced down and watched as words scribbled onto the artificed pages.

Lewis is a good chap. Very thoughtful. He would have made me a sink for the cottage if I’d wanted.

I smiled at the words on the notebook, then suppressed a small note of surprise as the page burned itself up and turned to ash, without damaging the rest of the pad. I’d forgotten that it did that.

Encouraged by the notebook’s effectiveness, I decided to try something.

“You know,” I began, “if I had some gold to spare, I think I’d buy myself a coat from Mr. Flueitt’s store before he closes down.”

“The tailor’s shop is closing?”

“He’s retiring. I think his lease ends soon.”

“What? Where will I buy my jackets from? Finding a tailor is a very delicate matter, Lewis. You have to get to know each other. They must learn your measurements, your sense of style. It’s easier to find a flying pig than a tailor who complements your style!”

“Alright, but anyway, if I had lots of gold to spend and I didn’t need to feel guilty about it, I’d buy one of those fancy winter coats with the comfy inner lining. You know, the kind of coat where you can walk into a blizzard and still feel toasty warm. What about you? If you could get yourself anything?”

Glancing down at the notebook, I saw a fresh thought appear on the page.

If Lewis wants a warm coat, why doesn’t he just make an artificed one that heats up on its own?

“Because artificery-”

Jester stared at me, eyebrow raised.

I continued, “Because artificery is…such a complex craft, I think I’ll be learning it for the rest of my life.”

“Oh. Right,” said Jester, in a tone that very much said he was confused about my random utterance, but was too polite to say anything.

The notebook burned up, leaving a faint hint of a smokey aroma around the counter area.

“What was that?” asked Jester.

“Oh, nothing.”

“It looked like something…”

“It was nothing,” I said. Then, “What would you buy if you were in the mood to treat yourself? It could be anything.”

“A person can’t buy anything, Lewis. The respect from one’s peers? It isn’t for sale. Satisfaction of a set of accounts put in perfect order? Not a price tag in sight. Those things can’t be bought.”

“Okay, but think materially. Stuff that you can exchange gold for.”

“I’ve never been a material person,” said Jester.

No sooner had he said this, than the notebook served up a fresh thought.

Lewis is acting strange tonight. I wonder if he’s getting enough sleep? He works too hard.

Sighing, and all too aware that the notebook would be completely used up before midnight if I carried on the way I was, I put it back in the storage closet and shut the door. I leaned back against the counter and pondered for a while, before coming to a decision.

“Look, Jester, I think I’ll just say it. When we were at your house for dinner the other week, I saw a present in one of your kitchen drawers. I shouldn’t have looked at the tag, but what can I say? I’m nosey. We know it’s either already been, or soon will be your birthday. Heck, it might be today for all I know. We’ve been racking our brains for gift ideas. Paisley’s already decided about hers, obviously, but I’m still struggling.”

The words left me in such a burst that I had to take a lungful of air afterward. Studying Jester’s face, I was surprised to see an amused smile form on it.

“So that’s why you’ve been acting strangely tonight.”

“Sorry. I have this mindreading notebook, and I thought I might be able to use it to find a perfect present for you.”

“A mindreading notebook?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “It’s a pretty crappy one. It can only read surface level thoughts, and only a sentence or two at a time.”

“Still…”

“I won’t use it on you again, I promise,” I said. “But about that gift…”

“Lewis…the best gift you could get me is the pleasure of your company in the King’s Head. Friendship is surely the greatest gift one can get, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, fine,” said Jester. “That, and a book coupon for Tattersall’s books.”

“A coupon?”

“I spend more gold in there than I’d care to admit. I suppose I’ve inherited my uncle’s love of books. I just can’t get enough of them.”

I thought back to the evening Chris and I had spent trying to decide what we should get Jester for his birthday, and how our best ideas were a coupon for the bookstore, and a voucher for a jousting adventure day at a fort near Stow.

“I knew you’d like a book coupon!” I said. “I knew it! Chris and I doubted ourselves.”

“Always go with your gut, Lewis. Except when balancing someone’s books. Or deciding whether or not to eat food that has been leftover in your pantry for too long.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I said. “But Jester, tell me something. What are your thoughts on jousting?”

Chapter 13

Working on the self-cleaning sink and a few other customer projects wasn’t enough to level any of the abilities on my Intermediate Enchantment and Intermediate Disenchantment skill trees. Progress on my other core artificery skills came soon after, however.

Checking on all the alchemy latest ingredients I had foraged and prepared, I was pleased to find that they were ready for use. Wasting no time, I took my crafter’s notebook and the Hymns from an Alchemist’s Travels book into the workshop, where I had also arranged my alchemy tools and ingredients.

“First things first,” I said, peering down at my notebook.

After scanning the notebook where I’d detailed my last few attempts to make the arthritis cream, I had a good idea where I was going wrong. Folks who haven’t done any alchemy would have been forgiven for wondering why I was struggling at all. I had the Simple Alchemy skill tree, after all, and I had the cream recipe from the Hymns book. Either I followed the recipe or I didn’t. So why was it going wrong?

I would answer them by telling them to go bake a souffle. There must have been thousands of books all boasting a souffle recipe. A person should be able to buy the ingredients, prepare them according to the recipe, and end up with a perfect souffle every time, surely?

Zakariya Spencer would have laughed at such a notion. So would Chris, who had tried making cheese souffle three times, meeting failure at every use of the oven. Alchemy was the same; you could follow a recipe perfectly, yet some small lack of skill, a tiny mistake, or even a bad ingredient could throw the whole thing out. Even someone like Janey suffered a failed recipe or two from time to time.

Today, though, the gods of alchemy were pleased with me. My copious notes and careful ingredients preparation helped too, I supposed. Whatever bore the most responsibility for it, the result was the same. No sooner had I added the final ingredient - concentrated sage - to my mixing bowl and stirred it into the paste, then token text greeted my weary eyes.

Alchemy complete!

Salve created: [Average] Helena Braithwaite’s Arthritis Cream

A specially formulated paste that can be applied to fingers and joints to reduce the pain of arthritis.

The cream had a medicinal smell to it, like the scent that clung to Healer Brown’s clothes whenever he visited the craftstead to give Master Cooper a check-up. It was pure white in color, and thick like butter. Basically, just a blob of beige cream that didn’t look much like a display of alchemy at all. To me, however, it was the most beautiful cream ever made. I couldn’t help but smile as I pictured myself presenting it to Phil, whose presence in the workshop I was surprised to learn that I was missing more and more.

Healer Brown’s office was maybe the cleanest place in Sunhampton. From the patient’s bed to his desk, and the glass door displaying an array of tinctures and medicinal implements, every single inch of the place was spotless. Even his windows would have rivaled Percey Tattersall’s and Paisley’s storefronts for cleanliness, and it was fortunate for them that Healer Brown was too busy to enter their window cleaning tournament.

Sitting behind his desk, Healer Brown used a small spoon, a bowl, and some strange alchemical strips to test the arthritis cream. The paper strips he was using turned light blue when he dipped them in the cream, but I didn’t know what this meant.

After being as patient as I possibly could, I finally lost my self-control and blurted out, “Well?”

Healer Brown set the paper strip down on his desk. “And you found the ingredients in a book?”

“‘Hymns from an Alchemist’s Travels’ by Helena Braithwaite.”

“Yes, I know Helena,” said Healer Brown.

“You know her?”

“We met at a conference in Woodbourne. I can’t remember what it was for. Exotic maladies, perhaps.”

“You actually met her?” I said, incredulous.

“Well, yes, Lewis. Why is this so surprising to you? I do leave Sunhampton from time to time.”

“I just…well, I suppose I thought she was dead. That it was an old book and she was long gone.”

“Whyever would you assume that?

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. It’s just such a useful book, and she’s had such a long, interesting life. You think of books like that and you assume that they were written by some legendary figure from history, right?”

“I assure you, Helena is very much alive and still practicing her craft. In any case, I’ve done what tests I can. The cream certainly isn’t dangerous. And if Helena used it, I can reasonably assume that it is effective. Of course, your skill as an alchemist won’t be anywhere near as good as hers.”

“Very true. So I can give the cream to Phil?”

“Fine by me,” said Healer Brown. “If it helps Phil Brownhill, then I’m happy.”

I was relieved. I had half suspected that he might feel slighted by me, a mere artificer, entering his healing office with a cream that would help a patient whom he’d already attended to. I knew that if Brown had walked into the workshop and tried to tell me how to do artificery, I wouldn’t have liked it.

Outside his office, I felt an impulse to make sure that he was, in fact, okay with it. I opened my coat and reached into the inner pocket, where I had placed one of the mindreading notebooks. I hadn’t meant to bring it out with me; it had just sort of happened. I had just found myself reaching for it, and soon, after, it was tucked safely inside my pocket. I certainly hadn’t intended to use it.

Yet here I was, standing outside Healer Brown’s office and using it. Opening the notebook, I waited a second or two for words to form on the page.

Damned budgets. Damn them all! If I had even half the budget of a city healer, I could help someone like poor Phil. Still, at least he has a friend like Lewis. Now, where’s my cleaning spray? This place is a pigsty.

Satisfied with what I had read, I left the notebook page to burn and turn to ash, before closing the book and returning it to my inner pocket.

Just then, Healer Brown’s door opened.

“Lewis! You’re still here. And you’re standing behind my door. What’s that smell?”

“Smell, Healer Brown?”

“I swear I can smell burning. You’ve not taken up pipe smoking have you, Lewis? There’s no habit worse, if you ask me. When I think of the trouble we had helping Jack quit all those years ago...”

“Master Cooper used to smoke a pipe?”

“He probably still does from time to time, in secret. But yes. I’d advise you to stay well away from that sort of thing. It doesn’t make you look sophisticated, as Jack believes.”

It was midafternoon when I presented myself at Jace Porter’s manor. When I rang the bell, a woman answered. She was tall and thin, and the smart dress she wore was perfectly tailored. In her hand, she held a clipboard and a pencil.

“If you’re looking for work, I’m afraid we don’t have any at present,” she said. “There is a water pump in the yard where you may wash your face and fill your canteen, but I must ask that you move on as soon as possible.”

“No, I’m not looking for a job. I’m Lewis.”

“Is Mr. Porter expecting you?”

“I live in the craftstead at the top of the hill. I work with Jack Cooper.”

She slapped her forehead. “Oh! The artificers up the hill. I beg your pardon, Lee.”

“It’s Lewis,” I said.

“Sorry, Lewis. You’re Miss Porter’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Paisley and I are buddies. I’m guessing you’re Sara-Rose?”

She smiled and leaned forward, talking in a conspiratorial whisper as if we were already friends who shared a confidence. “Look at me. I’ve been here for a week, and I already offended the town crier boy who always visits, two of Mr. Porter’s guests who I mistook for delivery people, and now you. I’m afraid if first impressions were plays, mine would turn a whole audience into an offended mob ready to pelt me with tomatoes.”

I shrugged. “Anyone who makes their mind up on a first impression isn’t worth it, if you ask me. Unless the first impression is a knife covered in blood. It’s okay to make your mind up quickly then.”

She laughed. “Miss Porter is at her store, I believe, if you want to see her.”

“It was actually Phil I came to visit.”

“Oh, then come on through. I must warn you, though, he hasn’t left his room much except to tell the gardeners they were being too loud when they were singing while they worked.”

Sara-Rose led me through Jace Porter’s manor, where the décor seemed to change every time I visited. He was forever adding an exotic vase here, switching a painting there. The only thing that never altered was the marble floor, though I suspected he would happily have replaced it if it wasn’t such a huge job.

“How are you finding it, working here?” I said.

“I’m not sure. Phil worked as head of the household for a long time. It’s not easy to take over from such an important person. Especially not when they still live in your place of work.”

“Phil? Important?”

“Mr. Brownhill was a legend in domestic employee circles, let me tell you. I remember I heard him give a talk once at the Manor Matters conference in Hattersdale. It changed the way I thought about organizing household mail.”

“What about here in the manor, is he giving you a hard time?” I asked, thinking back to the hot beverage debt book, and the zip mime Phil used to make when I was too loud.

“Actually…he’s been sweeter than a sponge cake. Anything I ask, he writes a detailed answer to. When I first arrived, I found little notes everywhere. Things like, ‘oil for the artificer’s lamps is stored here’ and ‘waste is collected every second Wednesday.’”

“Oh,” I said.

“You sound surprised.”

“I just expected Phil to be a little more…well, I wondered if he’d find it hard to see someone else doing his job.”

“I suppose he’s found a calling that sings to him more,” said Sara-Rose. Stopping at the entrance to the hallway that led to Phil’s room, she added, “I’ll leave you here. I have a tiler visiting in twenty-three minutes to re-tile the west wing bathroom. I’ll just have to try not to offend her, too.”

Phil didn’t answer on my first knock, nor on my second or third. It was only when I threatened to use an artificed universal key to force the lock that I heard footsteps. Such a thing didn’t exist, of course, and I wouldn’t have used it even if it did. But I always found that non-artificers had a way too high opinion of those of us who practiced the craft. Just as with mages, they believed that we were capable of anything.

“Lewis,” said Phil, opening the door a crack. He had dark bags around his eyes, and his skin looked gray and lifeless. I began to wonder if he was actually ill instead of just saying he was, but I had seen such a state in my own reflection many times after an all-nighter of crafting, or a late evening at the King’s Head.

“I have something for you,” I said.

“It’s not the best time…”

“Just give me five minutes, and I promise I’ll leave you to your wallowing.”

Phil gave a dismissive hand gesture that I supposed was an invitation to follow him. Crossing the threshold, I found myself in Phil’s bedroom. Though, calling it a bedroom was a huge injustice. This was a little apartment in itself, set on the east side of the manor. It had a balcony that looked out onto the gardens, treating the place not only to a lovely view of rose bushes and the perfectly manicured lawn, but also the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. As well as a bedroom with its own adjoining bathroom, the suite boasted a little kitchen area across from a living room.

Phil led me into the living room, where he gestured to a chair. “Drink?”

“I’d hate to accrue a debt,” I said.

He gave a hint of a smile, which I took as a minor victory. “No records will be kept. I can’t be bothered.”

“Then I’ll take a lemonade, if you have it.”

“I don’t.”

“A green tea?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Sara-Rose offered to add whatever I needed to the household grocery list, but it doesn’t seem right. If I’m getting this place for free, the least I can do is pay my way.”

“Forget the drink. Sit down, Phil. I want to show you something.”

After Phil settled into the chair across from me, I noticed how red his knuckles were. It must have been really painful right now for him to not even come to the workshop for a week. I thought about how I’d feel if my body stopped me from doing artificery, and I felt sympathy welling up in me, as well as a keen sense of anxiety about the cream. What if it didn’t work, after all? What if I’d come here like the grand savior, made a big act about showing him something, then nothing happened?

It was enough to make me reach for my mindreading notebook. Not to read Phil’s thoughts, but to take out a pen and write some of my own, ones that would dilute his expectations a little. I wondered if such a thing was possible, but that seemed like dark territory to me. The kind of artificery that Master Cooper would despise.

“Not to be rude,” said Phil, “But what do you want?”

“Well, that was sort of rude. You could have phrased it a lot nicer. Anyhow, I brought you something.”

I took the vial of cream from my pocket and set it down on the table between us. Phil stared at it with a pondering look. He turned the vial around, perhaps hoping to read a label, though I hadn’t stuck one on it.

“It’s a cream for your hands,” I said.

“Oh, Lewis. If Healer Brown gave-”

“This is alchemy, Phil. It’s from a very important alchemist. I mean, she didn’t make it – I did. But the recipe is hers, and she swore by it. I think it might help.”

“I’m not so sure I should be trying out alchemist’s creams. No offense, Lewis. But you hear about all sorts of allergic reactions, and that’s with things prescribed by healers.”

“I had Healer Brown take a look at it. He even used a paper strip thingy. This is safe. I can’t vouch for it working, but it won’t do any harm.”

Now, Phil picked up the vial. He was clearly more interested than earlier, but maybe he didn’t want to get his hopes up. “So, this alchemist…”

“Helena Braithwaite.”

“She had arthritis, too?”

“Really bad,” I said. “Got to the point she could hardly use her tools. This changed it. But I’m nowhere near her level – I suspect even Janey isn’t as good as Helena. So this may not be lifechanging, but there’s a chance it will help.”

Phil carefully unscrewed the vial. He paused, his mind on the precipice of the decision of whether to use it or not. I found myself clenching my teeth, and tried to force myself to relax by remembering a breathing technique Jester had shown me. Breathe in for five seconds, hold it for six, then exhale for seven.

As I watched, my breath held in my lungs, Phil applied to the cream to his hands.

I waited as long as I could bear.

“Well?” I said.

“It doesn’t feel any different.”

“Maybe it just needs time.”

Twenty minutes passed. A long, long twenty minutes. Phil busied himself by tidying up the living room a little, which was a sea of discarded books, empty cups, and even a few pairs of trousers turned inside out and abandoned on the floor. Lacking anything to take my own mind off the wait, I paced around.

Finally, Phil had had enough. “Lewis!” he said. “Paisley says you do this in her store all the time. I can see what she means now. It’s infuriating.”

“Sorry. But your hands…”

Phil picked up a cup and gripped it tightly. Wincing, he set it back down and said, “No change.”

I huffed and then slumped into the chair, more deflated than a rubber balloon days after a child’s birthday party. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. It’s just…maybe if I was as good as Helena, this would have worked. I guess I’m just sorry.”

“I can’t hold it against you for trying, Lewis. Not everyone would have. I just wish I hadn’t let myself think it would work.”

When I went back to the craftstead, I felt too dejected to work. Instead of visiting the workshop, I went for a walk with Bones, trampling over the hills surrounding our home until my calves began to ache. I’ve always found that there are two types of tiredness. Mental tiredness was the kind that I felt after a lengthy spell of crafting, while physical tiredness came from walks with the hounds. If I could get the two types to meet, I was usually sure of a good night’s sleep.

By the time our walk was over, my mind was a little clearer and I could even appreciate the calmness of the night, the utter silence that settled upon the craftstead like a thick blanket. Even better than my restored state of mind, I got back to the main house just in time for dinner. Cooper, Paisley, and Chris were seated around the table and had set a bowl out for me.

“Here he is! The wandering artificer! And where’s my little Bonesy?”

I had to laugh at the idea of Bones being described as little. “He went straight to the kennel. Guess he’s tired.”

“I still can’t get my head around him taking to you like that,” said Chris. “No offense or anything. But he’s so aloof with everyone else.”

“Like attracts like,” said Cooper.

“I’m not aloof.”

“You and little Bonesy are sensitive souls.”

“Here we go! Janey Morgan’s famous beef goulash, guaranteed to warm stomachs, banish ills, and make you think kindly of the person who made it and want to buy her gifts,” said Janey, ladling a generous serving into my bowl. She tore off a chunk of wholewheat bread and put it on the side.

“Does it really do that?” asked Chris.

“Of course not.”

“You never know, with you bloody alchemists,” grumbled Cooper.

I reached for my spoon. “Thanks, Janey, this looks,-”

“Not so fast!” she said, before placing a single basil leaf in the center of the goulash. “Some alchemy must not be rushed.”

Janey stood over me, waiting for my reaction. When the goulash was cool enough on my spoon I took a sip, enjoying the taste of the slow roasted beef and the copious paprika dancing on my tongue.

“Delicious. Thanks, Janey.”

Satisfied, she settled into her seat next to Cooper.

“We’ve been thinking,” said Cooper. “Maybe we ought to get a clerk. Someone who can take requests for the artificery and alchemy workshops. Keep a record of our inventory, what we need to order, and that sort of thing.”

“Paisley’s been suggesting that for months, Coops,” said Chris.

“And I’ll never hear the end of it now that I’m agreeing. Janey and I are trying to turn over new leaves. Take our businesses seriously, and not just our crafts.”

“Well, I for one applaud-”

The kitchen door burst open with such force that it smashed back against the wall, dislodging a cork board where Cooper had written down the times and order in which he was to take the tonics Healer Brown prescribed for him.

In walked – no, rushed – Phil Brownhill, his face one of extremes, of either exhilaration or panic, the sort of expression a person might make when they win the lottery or when their house was burning down. The question was, which kind of expression was it right now?

“It worked!” he shouted. “Lewis, it worked!”

As if to prove to me that his words were true, he reached across the table and picked up Master Cooper’s beer mug, gripping it tightly in his right hand. His knuckles, now a more healthy color and much less swollen, whitened a little as he squeezed. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Phil brought Cooper’s mug to his mouth and drank all the beer in one mouthful.

Our quiet evening meal turned into a celebration. Cooper, when he’d recovered from his annoyance at seeing Phil steal his beer, asked me and Chris to fetch one of the barrels of his favorite ale, Stow’s Special, which he kept safely in the storage building in the yard.

Before long, one beer became two, then three. The five of us finished all the goulash - which Janey had made in a huge batch with the intention of it lasting two or three days – and then we completely tapped the beer barrel, too.

Songs were sung. Janey produced a fiddle, revealing a talent I didn’t even know she had. She provided a backing track to our songs, which climaxed in a joint chorus of the Goblin Wants a Wife.

Later, after Phil had headed back to the manor and Cooper and Janey went to bed, Chris and I cleaned up the kitchen. I washed the dishes, wondering why I had never made a self-cleaning sink for the craftstead, while Chris stomped around the kitchen with a waste bag, discarding all the trash. We finally locked up and said goodnight, and I retreated to my bedroom, where I sat at my desk for a while.

Now came something I had been putting off. Or not putting off – that was the wrong word - but forcing myself to delay with the intention of savoring it when the time was right.

With all the alchemy I had been doing lately, I had plenty of token text that I still needed to read, but I had wanted to wait until I had made the arthritis cream for Phil. Now, though, it was finally time to check it.

Unbuttoning my cuff, I rolled up my shirt sleeve to my elbow, revealing the token bracelet on my forearm. I tapped it twice, unleashing a stream of writing that floated in the air like nightflies searching for a lamp to dance around.

Create Potion leveled to 2 [Simple Alchemy]

Create Potion leveled to 3 [Simple Alchemy]

Create Potion leveled to 4 [Simple Alchemy]

Create Potion leveled to…

On and on the text went. All told, my recent alchemy efforts had taken my Create Potion ability to eleven, and my Create Tincture to thirteen. The third ability on my Simple Alchemy skill tree, Identify Potion, had remained the same since I hadn’t used it.

The boosts that all this leveling up gave to my abilities was tremendous; my chances of success in alchemy were greatly increased, and I would now be able to take on more complex recipes without the certainty of failure. I could probably skip to the ‘Medium’ difficulty section of 1001 Recipes and not feel like I was trying to climb a mountain while wearing a pair of slippers.

That wasn’t the best part of it, though.

'Simple Alchemy skill tree leveled up to 2!

'Simple Alchemy skill tree leveled up to 3!

- Success odds of all abilities increased

- Crafting Stamina increased

- Ability gained: Forage

Level: 1

When using the forage ability, simply think of the ingredient you seek and if there are any nearby, they will glow with red light. Leveling this ability will increase ingredient detection distance, as well as improving the quality of your foraging.

The token in my bracelet, which bore an etching that depicted an alchemy alembic, glowed with golden light. The etching became more detailed, and the token itself gave off an air when I looked at it, a sort of feeling that always came when a token gained more experience.

This had been such a huge increase that I could hardly believe it. But then, I had studied with James Trafford, hadn’t I? While there were the Five Factors of crafting success, he had created the ‘Trafford Three Factors of Leveling.’ These stated that the speed of leveling a skill depended on three things: your current skill level, the difficulty of the project, and, most importantly, the need for the project itself.

It was standard knowledge that the lower your chosen ability, the easier it was to level. And the quicker you leveled an ability, the quicker you leveled the whole skill tree. No surprises there.

Similarly, most crafters knew that the harder a project, the more experience you would get from it. This was why there was such a thing known as the ‘sweet spot’. This meant a project that was tough for your current ability level, but not so difficult that it was impossible to complete.

But the third of James Trafford’s factors was the most interesting, yet the most widely ignored, too. I remembered being in the tavern of the artificer’s guild in Port Vesta, where he’d explained it to me.

“Doing the work isn’t enough,” he had said. “There has to be a reason for it. Practicing for practice’s sake will gain you experience, sure enough. But using your skills for a real reason? Creating something that actually has a purpose in the world, that fills a need, that solves a problem for even one person? That’s what the tokens like, Lewis. That’s what fattens them up.”

Everything I had created lately had a need. A use. The potions that quietened the artificed cart’s wheels, the salve that muted the sound of Simon and Potter hammering rocks. Paisley’s window spray, which gave my friend an advantage in her deadly duel with Percy Tattersall. But the greatest need of all had been from Phil, who couldn’t even face coming to the workshop for fear of the pain he’d feel in his poor fingers.

I sat at my desk, smiling widely and savoring the feeling of leveling my skill tree. With some hard work, and if I focused on leveling my Identify Potion and Foraging abilities, since they were only level 1, I could get the Intermediate skill tree.

That left Simple Craft and Forge, and Simple Tinkering. It was time to think about using those if I wanted to reach initiate status.

Chapter 14

The next morning, Janey and I had breakfast in the kitchen. It was my turn to cook, so I fried four rashers of bacon, two sausages, and four eggs. Janey liked hers extra yolky, and I felt a pressure to get them exactly right with an alchemy master watching over me.

The rain pouring down outside the craftstead had started in the early hours of morning, waking me up with its pounding on my windows, before I had applied muting salve to my ears. It was still coming down in torrents now, filling the gutters to the brim and collecting in the cracks in the cobbles in the yard. Across from the main house, though the kennel door was open, there wasn’t a wolfhound in sight. Not even Wrath, the most lively of them all, would come out when it was raining. Rain had an almost artificeric effect on wolfhounds, in that it made them incredibly lazy.

“We haven’t caught up on your progress in a while,” said Janey, using a knife to spread brown sauce on her bap with alchemic precision. “Not that I’m your teacher, but I still like to know how you’re getting on.”

“Foraging for my own ingredients really helped with the salve I was making. After that, I made a bunch more things,” I said.

“Indeed. Phil is very happy with your alchemy.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “I think he’ll be back at the workshop today.”

“You think he will? Lewis, he’s there now.”

“What?” I said.

“Master Cooper gave him a key, did he not? It was still dark when I got up this morning, but there was a lamp glowing in the workshop windows. When I collected Wrath and Amara and went to see what was happening, Phil was working in there.”

I took a bite of my sandwich, savoring not just the flavor of the bacon, sausage, and eggs, but also the feeling of knowing my friend was back doing what he loved.

“You know, I think I’m ready to take on a new pupil,” said Janey, “Once my workshop is finished. Stacey Logan says it won’t be long. But then, builders always say that, don’t they? And yet the construction carries on despite their promises.”

“I don’t think Stacey would prolong the work just to get more money.”

“No, I know. In any case, it’s time I took on an apprentice.”

“I told you, Janey, I’m afraid my heart belongs to artificery.”

“I didn’t know I was having breakfast with a romantic!” she said. “But I didn’t mean you.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know yet. But when I find the right person, I’ll know.”

Soon, Master Cooper emerged from his lair, as Chris and I called his bedroom, dressed in his silk dressing gown and with his hair stuck up at all angles. He kissed Janey’s forehead and then grumbled his way over to the kettle on the glow stone, where he poured a coffee into his favorite mug.

“Been meaning to talk to you, lad,” he said. “I’ve got a job for you.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot,” I answered.

Cooper settled into the chair next to Janey. “About that work with the Five Fiends.”

“They’re called Lisabeth’s Five Fiends, now.”

Cooper smiled. “A worthy name. I wish I could have met her.”

“You’d have infuriated her, Master Cooper. And she would have annoyed you, too. That happens with clashing personalities.”

“Is that what I am? An infuriating person?”

“Of course not,” said Janey. “You can just be very, very annoying, that’s all.”

Cooper took a big, noisy slurp of coffee, thus proving Janey’s point. “I was thinking that Mr. Toby Purcell’s job is suited for an initiate artificer.”

“You want me to take care of it?” I said.

“Some tinkering, some craft work. It’s nothing you can’t handle.”

That wasn’t quite true. Toby had asked for some quite complex work; a set design that could change scenery at will involved utilizing abilities that I had neglected thus far. I could probably handle artificing their wagons to increase their storage by artificeric means, though.

Just like with Janey’s request, I was tentative in accepting the job. What if I couldn’t do it? It was one thing not being able to complete a job for someone in town. Although I liked many of Sunhampton’s residents, their opinions of me didn’t matter all that much. But disappointing Toby and the Fiends? Was that something I could handle?

The only answer, I supposed, was to make sure I didn’t disappoint them. To handle this job like I handled every other artificeric project I was given.

“I’ll do it.”

“That’s my boy! Now, are you cooking breakfast, or what? It’s your turn, according to our schedule.”

“Maybe you ought to get up earlier, Master Cooper. But you could make yourself some toast.”

It was two days later, and the last few grains were falling from that afternoon’s hourglass, bringing about an oil black sky that made silhouettes of the crows, owls, and even the lone falcon that went hunting for a snack. Trees seemed to guard their remaining leaves jealously, their branches closing in or at least looking as though they did. That was most probably just the effect of darkness.

A visitor to the craftstead could easily tell it was almost winter with a single glance at the coat stand in the main house. In summer, when the trees around the craftstead were flourishing with thick layers of leaves, the wooden coat stand, polished deep brown, was bare. Not a single garment was hung or draped across it. But when the seasons turned and the trees shed their leaves, it was the coat stand’s time to flourish, and you could barely see its spine and arms for all the coats, scarves, and hats adorning it. There was even an artificed glow stone right underneath so that we could leave our soggy boots there and let them dry out and warm up ready for our next trip out into the cold.

Just getting in from a trip into Sunhampton to see Paisley at her store, I unbuttoned my coat and put it on the stand. I untied my boots, tried shaking them off without success, and finally had to use both hands to pry them loose. Finally, my right boot came off with such force that I fell back into the wall. Holding my boots in my hands, I peered down at the glow stone and judged that Cooper’s boots were dry. I moved them aside to make space on the glow stone for my own soggy footwear.

In the living room, Janey was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by hundreds or maybe even thousands of vials and tincture pots. The flames from the hearth, burning bright orange and filling the house with a smoky smell, made this sea of glass glitter and glow. I wondered if it was safe to have so many alchemical pots and jars near a fire, but Janey knew what she was doing.

“Hey, Janey. Busy?”

“Look at this. Just look at it. The boys I paid to pack my alchemical supplies for moving here…ugh. Might as well have paid a dog not to chase a stick. They completely ignored the order system I set down for them. They were to put everything in boxes according to type, but instead, they just packed everything whichever way they wanted.”

“Damn. That was weeks ago. I’m guessing you already gave them a tip.”

“Generosity will be my downfall,” said Janey. “In any case, I must now identify each alchemical product and order them.”

“That’s a pain. Good luck,” I said, before heading towards the kitchen in search of food.

“You’ve attained some of Jack’s heightened sense of empathy, I see.”

I thought that Janey probably wished that she’d put labels on all of her vials. I stopped short of saying it, however, recognizing that she wouldn’t like to hear that.

Then I changed my mind.

“I suppose you’re wishing that you put labels on all your vials.”

“Jack didn’t tell me you were getting into comedy, Lewis.”

“Well, I was sort of joking, sort of serious. It would have made everything easier.”

“I know, I know,” said Janey. “You’re right. For me, alchemy has always been the thing. Everything was about the alchemy itself. Anything that comes after just sends me to sleep.”

That’s why every alchemy business you ever set up failed within a year or two, I thought. This time, I didn’t say it.

“I know that’s why all my business hit the dung heap,” said Janey, who seemed to have read my mind. “I promised Cooper that I would improve that side of things this time.”

“Sunhampton doesn’t have an alchemist, and you’re the best for miles around. If you get the business side of things under control, you’ll make a fortune.”

“Perhaps,” said Janey.

There was no ‘perhaps’ about it, to my mind. Janey was an alchemy master, and Sunhampton had a real need for her talents. She just needed a little help in learning how to run a business.

It was then that two ideas occurred to me.

“Janey, what if I said I know how you can improve the business side of things?”

“I’d be very grateful.”

“Then I think you should talk to Paisley.”

“Me? Talk to her about business? She’s still in her teens, Lewis. I’d say no offense intended given that you are young, too, but I’m afraid it’s a fact that with youth comes a lack of experience. I’m the first to admit that I didn’t know even a smidgeon of the alchemical knowledge I possess now, back when I was still popping spots on my face.”

“Paisley is a fully classed merchant with a successful store and plenty of other investments that have brought in gold. You’d be lucky to have her give you some advice.”

“Lewis! You sound so stern when you defend your friend.”

“You were being an ass,” I said. “Apologies, but you were.”

I waited for Janey to lose her temper, but she didn’t. Instead, she settled her hands on her lap and smiled. It was a beautiful smile, what with the light from the fire settling on her skin that was flawless, even at an age where the fingers of time usually molded wrinkles into people’s features like it was shaping clay.

“I’m sorry, Lewis. Sorry to both you and Paisley. You’re quite right. I’m feeling the pinch a little, if I’m honest. What with the idea of really having to make my business work this time. I can’t let Jack down, but I want to do it for myself, too. If I could just have one business that made the tiniest profit…”

“I can understand that.”

Truth be told, I’d braced myself for an argument. That was what happened whenever I brought the hammer of truth down on Master Cooper and let him know a thing or two. But I hadn’t given Janey enough credit.

“I’ll talk to Paisley,” I said. “I’ll mention that you might need a few tips here and there.”

“I would be most appreciative if you did.”

“There was one other thing,” I said, nodding at the trove of vials and tins on the carpet. “I’m guessing you need to identify all of these potions and salves, and then label them?”

“A tiresome job, but it will be done in half an hour or so.”

“Half an hour? To identify all of these?” I said.

“My Enchantment skill tree is at master level, Lewis.”

“Can you identify lots of potions at the same time? Or do you just do each one really quickly?”

“Well, it’s a little of both.”

“Amazing. But I was wondering if I could identify them for you?” I said.

“That would take you days.”

“It’d give me a great leg up in leveling my Identify Potion. You need it doing, so it satisfies one of Trafford’s Factors.”

“Trafford’s what?”

“Never mind. It’d just be a really good way for me to level a low ability, that’s all.”

Janey sighed as though it was a real pain for her to surrender the task to me. Though if I had to critically evaluate how genuine her sigh sounded, I wouldn’t be recommending that she consider a career treading the boards.

“Great. I’ll get started right away,” I said.

Morning, noon, and night, I worked on identifying all of Janey’s potions and salves. The actual work was simple. With a potion vial or a little salve jar before me, I simply commanded my Identify Potion ability to work. Depending on the complexity of the potion, the answer came to me in five minutes, or sometimes fifteen.

The level of detail that my token text brought with it also differed depending on whether I was identifying something simple, such as a soothing ointment, or an example of difficult alchemy, like a firelick salve. Some came with full descriptions, others had none at all.

Potion identified: Potion of Steadiness

A potion that soothes nerves. Best taken twenty minutes before a stressful event, and always with food. If a rash develops on forearms and shins, see a healer immediately or counter with essence of aloe vera.

Salve identified: Salve of Natterjack Horn

I steadily worked my way through the collection. The next few days started to take on a routine. I was up at first light, and after doing a few of the stretches that Jester had taught me – “You’ll thank me when you’re eighty and you can still go for hikes, Lewis” – I ate a quick breakfast with whoever was up at that time, fed the wolfhounds if it was my turn, then headed to the workshop.

There, I filled the kettle and set it on the glow stone. While it was heating, I put coffee and milk in a cup and mixed it to create a paste that only needed hot water for its alchemical magic to begin working. While the glow stone heated up, I added some kindling to the center of the forge, lit it, and started placing small coals on top when it was hot enough. It was never long before the workshop was toasty warm, with the subsequent condensation that formed on the windows serving not just as a sign that we needed to maintain the seals around the frames better, but also as a way of mocking the cold air outside and telling it that it wouldn’t find success trying to breach the workshop doorway.

With the temperature just right and a warm coffee resting on the workbench to my left – always to my left, I was particular about that for some reason – it was time to work.

It wasn’t long before I got into a rhythm. I would identify a potion, write out a label, stick it on the vial or tin, and then carefully place the potion or salve in a wooden crate. Now that I knew what they did, I was able to organize them according to type, thus making Janey’s job easier when her workshop was ready and she needed to unpack them.

Hours and then days passed this way. Identify, label, store. Identify, label, store. I steadily worked my way through Janey’s supply, feeling a little hit of cheeriness every time I put a freshly-labeled bottle in the crate. Soon, though, some vials began to elude my identification. At first, it was one in twenty, then as many as one in five vials or tins refused to tell me what they were and what they did.

I had just finished my first pass of the collection when two sharp knocks sounded on the workshop door, and Janey walked in. She was wearing a blue raincoat and holding an umbrella in her hand. Master Cooper soon followed, wearing the exact same raincoat but in a size more suited to his rounder belly. They had bought the raincoats from Mr. Flueitt’s shop last week.

“Just heading out for a stroll,” said Cooper. “Any customers come, you know what to do.”

“Turn them away,” I said.

“You’d do it, too. I know you, lad. You’re a lazy little flea.”

“Jack…” said Janey.

“I’m only joking with him. Gods, Janey. Don’t you know how it works when you get an apprentice? It’s a master’s right to be able to mock them a little. Lewis knows I think the world of him.”

“Lewis is initiate-ranked now, Jack. He’s rather above master-apprentice games.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “Master Cooper’s just annoyed that I earned initiate quicker than he did.”

“I told you that as a compliment, you slippery snake, and here you are wielding it as a sword.”

Janey took a few steps into the workshop and said, “Oh, looks like you’ve made progress on my little collection.”

“Is there a way to improve my chances of identifying something?” I said. “A few of them just don’t seem to want to tell me what they are.”

“Sometimes we have to just admit we aren’t ready for something yet.”

“Do we, though?”

“Well, yes.”

“I wouldn’t like to believe that,” I said. “I think a person can do anything if they work hard enough.”

“Could you learn to fly?” said Janey.

Cooper backed out of the doorway. “I can’t be bothered listening to this. I’ll be waiting in the cart,” he said.

“I just think that if there’s an obstacle, then you work around it, climb over it, or just smash straight through it.”

“Lewis, a crafter’s life isn’t a sprint, but a journey. Of course it’s good to see obstacles as a challenge rather than a barrier. At the same time, there’s no shame in admitting that something is beyond your talents right now.”

“I don’t like that,” I said. “I hate my skills not being where I need them to be. Sometimes I look back on some of the crap that I made when I first got here, and it makes me wince.”

“Did you always do the best you could at the time?” asked Janey.

“Well, yeah. I always tried hard.”

“Then you should be proud of your earlier works, despite their flaws. Don’t wince at your past self for his lack of talent; thank him for providing the basis for your future improvement.”

It wasn’t that I disagreed with Janey. What she said made plenty of sense to me. Besides, she was a master alchemist who had decades of experience in leveling, so she knew a heck of a lot more than me. Truth be told, I quite liked the idea of thinking kindlier about my past self and all the projects that seemed good to me at the time, but now appeared full of design flaws and displays of my lower-ranked skill trees.

At the same time, I wasn’t ready to admit that some of Janey’s potions and salves were just beyond my identification right now, and that there was nothing I could do about it and I should give up. There was an answer to this; I just needed a moment of clarity.

I made another cup of coffee and then took it to the doorway, where I stayed on the warm, dry side of it and watched the rain fall in the yard. Watching raindrops plop in puddles and water slosh over the sides of blocked gutters, I let my mind go where it wanted.

When I was struggling with my alchemy, I thought, foraging and preparing my own ingredients helped increase my chances. I wonder if there’s something similar for identifying potions?

For the rest of the afternoon, until Janey and Cooper returned prematurely from their hike thanks to the clouds deciding it was time to unleash a torrent of not just rain but hail, I sat with my crafter’s notebook and jotted down a few ideas for how I might improve my chances of identifying tougher potions.

“Still working, lad?” said Master Cooper, shivering in the doorway. His and Janey’s insistence on dressing in the same style of coat for their walks meant that neither of them wore artificed garments. Their coats had succumbed to the rain and their umbrellas, it seemed, hadn’t been enough to protect them.

“You should go change, Master Cooper. Get warmed up.”

“If we’re giving advice, then perhaps you should leave this place once in a while. It stinks of sweaty young artificer.”

“And the fragrance was so sweet before I came to live here,” I said. Then, “Master Cooper, can I ask you a question?”

“Questions are like farts, lad. Better out than in.”

“Ah, so that’s what the aroma was in here. I always wondered.”

“Come on, toe rag. What’s on your mind?”

I had been thinking about this for a while but I had always stopped short of asking it. Now seemed as good a time as any. “Are you semi-retired now, Master Cooper?”

Cooper looked thoughtful, as though the question had never occurred to him. But surely he knew that he hadn’t been in the workshop as much. When he was working, he worked as hard as ever, it was just that those times were becoming fewer.

“Are you trying to jump in my grave, lad? Have you already commissioned a sign for the front of the craftstead with your name in big letters?”

“I think it’s a good thing if you’re easing up a little,” I said. “Healer Brown’s always said you should. And with Janey here now, you have a reason to.”

“What, and before she came to live here old Jack Cooper couldn’t find a way to occupy his own time?”

“Not when you weren’t artificing things, no. Your idea of relaxing was disenchanting spell scrolls and writing complaints and grumbles in your Grumble Book. This is good, Master Cooper! You can still work whenever you want, and you have me here to pick up the slack.”

“The truth is, lad, artificery is my first love. But your first love doesn’t always prove to be the strongest. Lately, I’ve had a feeling of something creeping up on me. No, not creeping up. That sounds bad. I don’t know, snot bag, I just feel…some mornings when I wake up I don’t think first about what I need to artifice, but instead what Janey and I can do that day.”

“Okay, Master Cooper,” I said. “I just wanted to know. If you ask me, and I know you didn’t, you’re getting the balance just right.”

I considered, and attempted, a few solutions to my identification problem. Since researching and foraging for ingredients had increased my chances of a successful potion, I figured that something similar might work for identifying them.

For an entire morning and then a few hours after lunch, I sat on the couch in the main house living room and read through the 1001 Alchemy Recipes book, absorbing as best as possible what ingredients it took to make a potion or salve, what the end result looked like, and what it did. I couldn’t pretend that everything I read stayed in my head, but I made fast progress. Each page was barely a paragraph or two long with an accompanying drawing, so it wasn’t as if I was trying to read a novel in one day. In fact, I was almost done when Chris unexpectedly returned from Perentee.

At the doorway, he tapped his boot against the outside wall and then walked in. He tugged them off his feet and then, seeing there was no room on the heated glow stone beneath the coat stand, said, “Lewis, you mind if I move your boots? They seem dry.”

“Go ahead.”

Chris took off his coat and walked into the living room. His curly hair was plastered against his head. “It’s coming down like troll’s piss out there.”

“That’s Sunhampton winter for you. If it’s not cold then it’s wet, and more often than not it’s both. Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“I asked Mayoress Phillips if I could finish a couple of hours early. I booked a table for me and Paisley at the Salted Cod.”

“In Full Striding?”

He nodded. “It’s her favorite restaurant.”

“Anything special?”

“Just thought I’d treat her,” said Chris.

That evening, Phil, Jester and I went for something to eat at the King’s Head. I took my 1001 Recipes book with me. Jester groaned when I asked them both to test me while we waited for our main meals – three servings of beef stew with dumplings – to arrive, but Phil was delighted to help. He had already bought me my first beer, insisted on buying my beef stew, and had even pulled my chair out for me before I sat down.

“What do you want me to do?” he said.

“Just say the name of a potion, and I’ll tell you as many ingredients as I can, what it does, and what it looks like.”

“Hmm,” he said, thumbing through the book, “Salve of Quenching.”

“Satisfies your thirst for a while when you put it on your lips. Made from moon lily, water pearls, and… ox hooves?”

“Roxgroove, not ox hooves. But otherwise well done.”

“Thanks. One more?” I said.

“Lewis, I can ask you questions all evening, if you want. You’ve earned it.”

“Maybe we could talk about something else when food comes,” suggested Jester.

My memorization of alchemical recipes definitely helped. That evening when I got back from the King’s Head, I made a second sweep through the unidentified potions and salves using my Identify Potion ability, this time managing to properly name and categorize more of them. As good as this was, it still left a stubborn collection of tins and vials that had resisted several attempts by now.

Soon after my latest attempt, I heard laughter coming from the yard. Heading to the doorway, I saw Paisley and Chris getting off the artificed cart.

“Here you go, my lady,” said Chris, helping Paisley down.

“Thank you, my good sir,” she replied, before the pair burst out laughing.

Chris, spotting me, shouted “Lewis!”

I heard the loud screech of wood that I knew came from Cooper’s bedroom window, which was long overdue for a replacement. Sure enough, Cooper’s head appeared in the now-open window, wearing that silly cap he always slept in.

“Would you three keep it down?”

“Sorry, Coops!” said Chris.

“What do you think you’re playing at, yelling and laughing at this time of…oh, hello Miss. Porter.”

“Hello Mr. Cooper,” said Paisley, waving. “Sorry. We’ll keep it down.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright. You young ‘uns have fun.”

Chris and I exchanged looks before he shook his head. “Unbelievable. Paisley could throw cow dung in his face, and Cooper would thank her for the mud mask.”

“What’cha up to, Lewis?” said Paisley.

“Identifying stuff for Janey.”

“For yourself, more like. To level up.”

“Hey! I’m still doing her a service!” I said.

“Sure you are. How’s it going?”

“Still got a bunch left to do, but I’m getting there. It’s frustrating. I’m sorta starting to think that Janey’s right, and that I’ve just hit an ability barrier and I should let her do the rest. I’ve definitely got enough other stuff to be working on.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s for the best. I’m sure Janey will appreciate your effort,” said Paisley.

When I thought about it, I had made a good attempt at identifying everything. Though I hadn’t checked my tokens yet, I was sure I would have leveled up a bunch. It would be a lot easier to just have a little gratitude for what I’d done already, appreciate my efforts, and hand it over to someone who was better at it than me.

My mind was almost made up. Just then, however, I saw something that completely changed how I thought. Something that made me ponder the act of quitting, the quality of determination and that invisible energy that some people have in buckets and others don’t have or haven’t developed yet. It made me dwell on how fostering grit and building strong guts can separate the good from great.

That was, I watched Chris trying and failing to unbutton his coat, impaired as he was by however many beers he’d drunk at the Salted Cod. He wasn’t fully inebriated or anything like that – Chris had the liver of a horse. There was no denying he’d lost some coordination, though. Still, he didn’t give up, and finally, finally, the last button surrendered to his efforts.

“Well done, pal!” I told him, slapping him on the back.

He gave me a wide grin. “For what?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m gonna walk Pais home. Won’t be long.”

Now that I was sure I was going to see this task through, my next question was, how could I identify the remaining vials? When I looked at the factors of crafting success, I thought I measured up well. My Identify Potion ability was level one the last time I checked, but there was no doubt that it had leveled up over the last few days. I just hadn’t checked the actual token text yet, since I liked doing it all in one big go. This left materials, random chance, tools, and the difficulty of the job itself as the remaining factors. Were there any tools that might help me use my Identify Potion ability better? A quick check of chapter one of 1001 Recipes – ‘Before You Get Started’ – didn’t reveal much. Then again, the book was about making potions, not identifying them.

So what could I try next?

I thought maybe I could sample a little of the potions, and see what the effects were. But then, that was a strategy that might well end up with me burning a hole in my own throat, or turning my face blue.

Ah, damn it. I suppose I could just ask Janey. But then she’ll know I couldn’t handle this on my own.

Later that evening, I had promised Jester that I would help him refit his kitchen. This involved making new units, removing the old ones, installing the new units, and painting the walls and skirting boards. Finally, we were going to remove the seals from his windows and spread fresh sealant to stop the draft that kept getting into the cottage on cold nights.

For a hobbyist crafter, this was a job that would take days. Weeks, if they were building the new pantries and drawers by hand, using nothing but manual tools and hard work. Luckily for my friend, I had the Simple Craft and Forge skill tree. As well as allowing me to use my Craft ability to instantly make new pantries and doors, I could also use my Dismantle ability to remove the old ones within a blink, even salvaging some of the materials as a bonus.

Doing things this quickly had its drawbacks. There was a definite boost in the quality of work when you did things slowly. Take Stacey and her team working on Janey’s new workshop – Cooper had insisted they do things the slower, more deliberate way, and had paid them more as a result. This was because he only wanted the best for Janey. Whereas all I wanted was to finish Jester’s kitchen, best or not.

“Thanks again for helping me out,” said Jester, as we stood in the kitchen and got ready for battle. My friend was wearing a set of blue painter’s overalls, as well as a toolbelt with a bunch of tools that he’d bought a few months ago, and had never used. Jester was the kind of guy who liked to dress for the occasion. That time we’d all gone to an archery day in Farmer Heathcliffe’s field, Jester had turned up with his own shooting gloves and quiver. On the day, Jester had sprained his finger firing his first arrow, and his new kit was subsequently enjoying its new life in a box in his attic.

“Anytime,” I said. “Although, let’s get started, because I have lots to do tomorrow.”

“We could always do this another time…”

“No, it’s fine. It shouldn’t take long. At least, my part won’t. The painting is gonna be all yours, my friend.”

I got to work, first using Craft to make new pantry cabinets, doors, and drawers, then using my Upgrade ability to match them to Jester’s needs. When that was done, I put Dismantle to use in removing the old cabinets, which hadn’t been changed since Aunt Sheila used to live in the cottage. This left the kitchen looking bare and, in honesty, worse than when we’d started. But it wouldn’t be that way for long.

A few hours later, we were done. At least, the units were installed and the windows resealed. Jester would have to paint the walls in his own time. I rolled up my sleeves and headed into the living room, where I sank into his new sofa. Although using my abilities hadn’t tired me physically, draining my crafting stamina always hit me deeper, finding the bullseye in some place in the recesses of my soul beyond my blood and marrow.

“Beer?”

“You read my mind,” I said.

Sipping on a beer fresh from Jester’s cold store, I resisted the urge to stretch out and put my feet up on his table like I would have at the craftstead. Jester didn’t like that. He didn’t much like dirt or stains or anything in that general area at all. It was only the knowledge that the cottage was a work in progress that let him live in it without getting stressed. That and his new meditation regime, I supposed.

Working in Jester’s kitchen had been a good distraction for me, but now that I was sitting down, it was like my brain wouldn’t let me relax. I kept thinking about the unidentified potions back at the workshop. They seemed to have taken on cheeky personalities in my mind’s eye and were goading me for my failure.

Jester must have noticed, because he said, “I could fit a coin between the furrows on your brow. What’s up?”

“You know. The usual.”

“Artificery? Do tell.”

“It’s alchemy this time,” I said. “But you don’t wanna hear it.”

“I think you know me well enough now to realize that I do. It interests me, Lewis! Just like how market bylaws interest you. Remember the hour I spent explaining them to you at Rolls and Dough? The look on your face, the one of sheer joy? That’s how I feel when you talk about artificery.”

I felt a little guilty that my acting had fooled Jester so much. What was I supposed to do, though, be honest with my friend? If you asked me, honesty had its place. Honesty was a dangerous thing, and you had to use it wisely. Try firing an arrow of honesty with the same poor technique as Jester fired a bow, you were likely to sprain your finger or hit a target who wasn’t expecting it.

Telling the whole sorry saga of my potion identification took me half of my beer, at which point Jester was ready to go fetch me another. Seeing that Jester had drunk only a few mouthfuls of his, I got my own.

When I returned to the living room, Jester said, “I think I can help you.”

Folks say not to look a gift horse in the mouth. But what if the gift horse was offering to help you with your alchemy? Should you just tell the horse, ‘Sure. Let’s see what you’ve got?’ What if it started trying to pick up vials with its hooves and ended up getting broken glass everywhere?

“Really?” I said.

“Sit down,” said Jester. “Set your beer on the table there. Now, I want you to close your eyes.”

“Aw, come on, Jester. Meditation?”

“It will clear your mind and help you focus.”

“Those things seem at odds,” I replied. “Do I want my mind clear of things, or focused on things?”

“You sound like Mr. Cooper.”

“Hey-”

“If you don’t want to sound like him, maybe you should just listen. First, I’ll show you how to clear your mind of everything. Kind of like removing those old pantry cabinets from my kitchen. Then, I’ll teach you how to make new ones.”

“New cabinets?”

“New thoughts, Lewis. New ways to focus on something.”

I couldn’t say I felt much different when I got back to the craftstead. I was more relaxed, perhaps. Rather than head straight to the workshop for an hour or two of crafting before bed, I actually found myself yawning at the sight of the main house and my bedroom window which looked down on the yard.

I stood there for a moment, in the middle of the yard, caught between the workshop and the house. Work or sleep? My head told me to go and work for a while, but my instincts, my gut, whatever it was called, told me to go to my room and get some sleep.

This time, I listened to the latter, and headed into the house and, since the rest of the household was asleep, I crept quietly up the stairs. After undressing and climbing into bed, I closed my eyes and slept better than I had in weeks.

In the workshop the next day, I felt different. I told myself that this was what it felt like when someone got a full night’s sleep, but that wasn’t quite it. My mind felt a little less cluttered. Not much, just a little. Enough for me to be free from all the doubts I had before.

Wanting to seize on it before my brain managed to find fresh doubts to plant in the flowerbed where I’d plucked the old ones from, I focused on Janey’s vials that I hadn’t identified yet, and I used my Identify Potion ability again and again.

A few days later, it was with a proud glow and a rumbling stomach – it was lunch time – that I invited Janey into the workshop and presented her with five boxes, each filled with her potions and ointments that were identified, labeled, and then put in an organizational system that made sense to me. Janey, I knew, would change the system the instant her workshop was ready, but that was okay.

“Well done, Lewis. Look at them all, with their little labels. I can tell what they all are with just a glance. I don’t even need to use Identify Potion.”

“Maybe you could keep it up going forward,” I said.

“Perhaps I will.”

“And so, the student becomes the master.”

She arched her eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t my student.”

“Yeah, well, anyway. Thanks for letting me do all of that. I know you could have had them identified in half an hour, but it really helped with my leveling.”

“Do tell,” said Janey, pulling a stool out from under the workbench and sitting in it.”

“Well, my Identify Potion went from one to eight. I couldn’t believe it, but I guess there were so many vials and other things to identify. Anyway, that leveled my whole Simple Alchemy skill tree to four.

“So then, I went out and used my Forage ability in the woods and collected a whole bunch of shrooms, herbs, berries, nuts. That ability leveled up pretty quickly, too, since it was only level one.

“Then I worked on some more alchemy from the 1001 Recipes book and used my Create Potion and Create Tincture a bunch of times until they leveled. That just about did it.”

“Did what?”

“I have the Intermediate Alchemy skill tree now!”

It’s a well-known fact that people don’t usually care about other people’s level ups as much as their own. They just don’t. Not through any kind of malice or anything like that, but just because a person’s own achievements will usually mean more to themselves than to others.

This wasn’t the case with Janey. The delight on her face when I told her that I had earned the Intermediate Alchemy skill tree made me like her all the more, suffusing me with a fondness for the alchemy master that was rivaled only by how I felt about Master Cooper, even on his most grouchy days when he called me snail and toe rag and snot bag.

“So…” said Janey. “What did you get? Tell me everything.”

“I got the Preparation ability. Helps me-”

“Prepare ingredients better,” she said. Then, “Sorry. Of course you know that I’d know that. I don’t mean to steal your thunder. Go on.”

“Just a general boost to everything, Janey. I think if I had to go back and identify all your vials again, I would do it much quicker. You know something? I think I’ll be an initiate artificer before Yulthor.”

Chapter 15

A few mornings after my alchemy success, and after washing and dressing in what I supposed was my most presentable shirt and trousers – most of my clothes now sported stains from my artificery, no matter how I tried to avoid it – I headed towards town. I found Lisabeth’s Five Fiends’ wagons parked up in one of Farmer Heathcliffe’s fields, one which he didn’t use for grazing his cows and sheep. This was a common practice for the Fiends; where possible, they rented space to leave their wagons rather than parking them in free – yet much less secure – lands.

Seeing their wagons was like walking through a portal into my past. There was Big Henry’s wagon which he had all to himself, accounting for his huge frame. Then the smaller, yet more decoratively-made wagon that Cobby and Mel shared. Toby had told me that their new leading lady, Ophelia, disliked comforts and preferred to sleep in the open air, which meant that although she traveled to places in the wagons, she slept in a two-berth tent made from transparent canvas, so that she could see the stars. Nearby was the supply wagon where the Fiends kept all their costumes and props. Finally, there was Toby’s wagon. This was the grandest of all, the last relic of his formerly-rich family. They had made – and lost – their fortune in the mining business. When his father had died Toby had inherited what was left, which didn’t account for much. Over the years he’d sold many of their antiques and heirlooms in order to keep the Fiends afloat, but one thing he’d never part with was his decorative wagon.

“Lewis!”

I barely had time to register the voice before I was enclosed in a huge, breath-sapping hug. When Big Henry finally released me, I felt like I’d been squeezed by a grizzly bear. A bear that smelled strongly of cologne.

“Toby told us you’d be stopping by!” said the giant man. “Cobby wanted to visit the craftstop where you live, but we thought it better to be patient, rather than overwhelm you.”

“It’s the craftstead, actually, Henry. Master Cooper is very particular about that.” Then I added, “It’s great to see you.”

Henry took a moment to appraise me, then said, “Look at you. Grown a few inches, at least. You’ll be bigger than me soon. Maybe Toby will give me a break then and cast you in some of the villain roles. I’m sick of audiences in every town hating me. Some folks don’t seem to understand that although I play a villain on stage, I’m a sweetheart, really.”

It was true. It always had been. Big Henry looked menacing enough that he could throttle the life from you with his thumb and index finger, but I’d once seen him go sleepless for three nights after accidentally swatting a bumble bee.

“Where are the others?” I said.

“Cobby’s trying to sort out where we’ll put the stage. We were thinking the market plaza would be perfect, but we’re having trouble with the fella who runs it.”

Mr. Leabrook was in charge of the Sunhampton market, and his whole life seemed to be an exercise in making sure people knew it. He had so many terms, rules, and licenses that he required market traders to follow that it was a wonder any market days ever went ahead. Paisley and I had run afoul of him more than a few times, but he’d since learned not to try tangling up Paisley in legalese or unnecessary bureaucracy.

“Is he giving you trouble?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing we can’t sort out, I hope. He just has all these forms to fill, and fees to pay.”

“I’ll have my friend speak to him. I’m sure she’ll straighten it out.”

“Now that you’re here, come and have a coffee with me. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

While Cobby was in town dealing with Mr. Leabrook, the other Fiends were busy preparing for the Yulthor play. Mel was in the town library, according to Big Henry, researching local history to add a little flavor to their script. Ophelia was in Full Striding, visiting the market to try and get a deal on new costumes. Toby, meanwhile, was taking a morning hike through Trecher’s Pass, trying to ‘breathe deep the air of this enchanting little town’, as he’d put it to Henry.

Just like old times, Big Henry and I sat at the campfire in the center of the field, enclosed on all sides by the wagons forming a barrier to the wind. Henry brewed me a cup of his coffee, famous for being so strong that it could wake the dead. I drank lots of coffee in the workshops these days, but nothing as strong as this.

Time ticked by in pleasant familiarity, and as we talked, I felt like I had never left the Fiends at all. Big Henry told me of all the places they’d visited, the plays they’d performed. There was the time in Steeple Rise when Toby lost his voice, yet refused to surrender his hero roles to Henry, who doubled as hero and villain when required. Then there was the play in Stow, where they gave a performance that earned them their first patron.

“Things have been on the up,” he said. “And we needed it. After Lisabeth…well, things were grim, Lewis. We missed her. We missed you.”

It felt too early in the morning for such earnest talk, but that was Henry all over; he didn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve, but had held it out in his open palm for everyone to see.

Not literally, of course.

“But after we renamed the troupe, things changed,” he explained. “It was like Lisabeth, well, her name was a sort of charm for us. Things just started going well. Play after play, all of them well received. Not a single tomato pelted in our direction. Our coffers grew a little. Not a lot, but enough to support us, and then enough to have a little set aside for things we’ve been neglecting. Then we got ourselves a patron, which allowed us to do even more things. Such as the work Saucy Toby’s asked you to do. Is that right?”

“That’s why I’m here. Just need to take a look at the wagons. I wanted to get an idea for what Toby needs in regard to the set changing machine, too, but I guess that’ll have to wait.”

“I still can’t believe it,” said Henry. “Little Lewis, an artificer. I’m so proud of you, lad. I know Lisabeth would be, too.”

For the next couple of hours I toured the wagons and measured them up. Using artificeric means to enhance their inside space wasn’t such a tough job, especially for an initiate-ranked artificer. I had done similar artificery plenty of times. Most recently, I’d made a bunch of water canteens for Paisley’s shop, using miodes to increase their storage capacity while keeping them physically the same size.

This meant that producing the same effect for the wagons was a similar process, but on a larger scale. The way I reckoned it, I’d need to use a lot of miodes for the job. And the labor time would be quite high; not only would I have a lot of space to enchant, but I would do it manually, rather than using my token abilities to do it much quicker. I wanted to do the very best job I could, and that meant taking things slow.

It did occur to me that with materials and labor taken into account, it might actually be more cost effective for Toby to sell the wagons and buy bigger ones. Cities like Full Striding had wagon stations, and the people who ran them often sold their run-down vehicles at cheaper prices. It wouldn’t take much to fix them up.

I wondered if Toby knew this, and preferred to have me do it because he wanted to give me the work. Or maybe it was just his actor’s flair showing through. Why do something the simple, boring way, when you could use artificery? That sort of flourish certainly matched his personality.

When lunchtime drew near, I had filled five pages of my crafter’s notebook with plans for the wagons, along with a rough list of the materials I needed. I said goodbye to Henry, who was exercising with weighted bags of sand behind his wagon, and promised I’d see him and the rest of the Fiends in the King’s Head later.

I ate lunch with Jester at the Sunny Café, where Spruce Wilkinson asked me, in a tone I was sure he meant to convey that he wasn’t pushing me, how I was getting on with his order books.

“I’ll have them done soon enough,” I said.

“Soon enough,” repeated Spruce. “Crafters and builders, you’re all alike. Everything’s ‘soon enough’ or ‘almost ready.’ Still, if you want a job doing right, then I suppose you have to be patient.”

Along with his new meditation regime, Jester had also changed his diet. Back when he worked at Jenkins and Clyde Accountancy in Hattersdale, he had often eaten lunch at his desk, and it was almost always something unhealthy like a bacon sandwich or a pie covered in gravy. Now, along with cleansing his mind, he was trying to cleanse his body. This meant that while I ate a satisfying plate of sausages and chips, he had opted for a legume salad.

“I thought Phil was going to join us?” I said.

Jester took a bite of his salad, prompting what seemed to me like a, ‘I must like this, I must like this’ kind of expression. “I called by the craftstead, but he was too busy to leave his ships.”

“I suppose he’s got a lot of catching up to do.”

“It was a good thing you did, Lewis. I was really worried about him.”

“Let’s not pretend I’m some good, altruistic guy,” I replied. “I wanted to level my alchemy.”

“Still. It makes me wonder if I ought to be doing something that helps people.”

“Folks always need their business accounts balancing.”

“I know, but it doesn’t really give me an inner glow. The book I’m reading, ‘Be at One With the Inner You’, says that you must always seek your inner glow. Hmm. Perhaps I could see about volunteering. I s’pose there are charitable organizations out there who may need accountancy work done for free. Only, I can’t really afford to just give away my time right now.”

“Maybe get your business up and running, and then worry about helping people.”

“If only I can convince Jace Porter to give me a contract. He has so many businesses, Lewis. I wouldn’t have to worry about finding clients ever again.”

In the afternoon, I left Sunhampton and traveled to Larking, where I visited Steve’s Spell Scroll Shop. I had intended for it to be a quick trip, but as usual, Steve kept me chatting long after I had paid for the scrolls.

“How did he like the cart you were making for him, by the way? I forgot to ask you the last time you were here.”

“He loves it,” I said. “But I think all I’ve done is give them license to stay even later and drink even more at the King’s Head, now that they know they don’t have to walk back up the hill to get home.”

“Jack doesn’t need a license to fill his gut with beer, let me tell you. The things we used to get up to…”

“Oh?” I said, interested.

“Never mind. I don’t think Jack will appreciate me spilling his secrets to his apprentice. Oh, sorry. You’re a novice now, aren’t you?”

“Initiate, actually,” I replied, never tiring of hearing myself say my new artificery rank.

“Congratulations, lad! You’ll be master-ranked before you know it.”

Later, back at the craftstead, I joined Phil in the workshop. He was working on making a huge model galleon which he planned to be the centerpiece of his stall, when he was ready to work the Full Striding market.

“I won’t sell it,” he explained to me, as I admired it. “It’s there to draw the attention of people passing by. Paisley says that a market stall must always have a centerpiece. A reason for people not to ignore it.”

“I’m sure this’ll do the trick. How are your hands?” I asked.

“Sore, but tolerable. Thank you again, Lewis.”

“Honestly, no thanks needed. Just go easy on the cream. According to the Hymns from an Alchemist’s Travels, Helena only had to apply it every two days. My version isn’t as good as hers, but I think once or twice a day might be enough.”

Soon, Phil wanted to get back to work, though he stopped short of telling me so in his usual brusque way, and there wasn’t a zip mime in sight. I let him get back to working on his galleon, while I grabbed my artificer’s goggles and disenchantment fork, and then got started.

As ever when I was crafting, time went by at the speed of a shooting star. Given that winter was coming, the sky was darkening much earlier each day, and the view outside the workshop windows was soon that of a black yard, lit only by the sole artificed lamp atop a wooden pole.

A glance at the row of clocks on the wall gave me a surprise. “Phil,” I said. “We’re going to be late!”

“Late for what?” he asked, without looking up from his ship.

“The King’s Head. Everyone’s meeting there. The Fiends are going to be there.”

While Phil packed away his ship, tools, and materials and stored them in the closet that Cooper had set aside for him – now that it was clear he would be a regular fixture in our workshop – I headed into the main house, where I hurried up to my room.

Standing before my clothes closet, I felt a wave of disappointment. I had never really cared about appearances. I could quite happily wear the same, crafting-stained shirt for days in a row, until Chris politely – and Paisley not so politely – suggested that maybe I ought to make a visit to the ‘closet goblin’, as Paisley called her clothes closet.

The shirts in my closet were washed and hung neatly on hangers, but none of them were really suitable for tonight’s meal at the King’s Head. Most times, when it was just me, Paisley, and the others, that didn’t matter, but I wanted to make an impression tonight, for some reason.

I really need to make a visit to Mr. Flueitt’s store before he closes down for good, I thought.

With time ticking by and me already being late, I made a split-second decision. I left my room and crossed the hallway to Chris’s bedroom, where I found it empty. Chris must already be at the King’s Head, I guessed. He’d probably gone there straight after work.

Remembering something Chris had once told me – ‘feel free to borrow my shirts any time you like’ – I opened his closet and surveyed what was on offer. There was a time when nothing Chris owned would have fit me. But too many occasions where Paisley had referred to him as ‘my cuddly bear’ had made Chris slim down his meal portions, along with him taking long hikes around the glades and fields of Sunhampton. Paisley didn’t mean it in a bad way, of course. Bears were fearsome and tough, she explained. She had meant it as nothing but a compliment.

When his frame had slimmed a little he had spent some of his hard earned gold at Mr. Flueitt’s, and this meant he boasted a clothes collection that was much fancier, cleaner, and more fashionable than mine.

I borrowed a pale blue shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers that fit me perfectly, then headed into the bathroom, where I sprayed some of the cologne that Janey had brewed for Chris for his birthday.

Washed, finely attired, and smelling of something other than miodes, oil, and sawdust for once, I left the house.

“Well, someone looks fancy,” said Phil, meeting me in the yard.

“This? Just something I threw on.”

“You look quite different, Lewis. Almost like a respectable person.”

The fire in the King’s Head was roaring, and the patrons were roaring along with it by the time Phil and I arrived. But this wasn’t the roar that signaled an argument between Cooper and the other patrons about something silly like, ‘Who invented the lute?’ Cooper was well known for his ability to tease an argument out over absolutely anything.

No, this was the roar of laughter, provoked by the antics of Toby and the Fiends who were regaling the tavern with stories from the many towns and villages of Easterly that they’d performed in.

I stood at the doorway for a second, enjoying watching Toby tell a story of how they’d once been stiffed for payment by a duke who they performed a private play for, and had got their revenge by writing him as a simpleton in their next play.

Soon, even Toby got bored of the attention, and he and the Fiends took their places at a long table over by the hearth. Alec had allowed Toby to push three tables together, creating a space big enough for us all to enjoy a meal together.

“Lewis!” said Cooper, beckoning me over. “Sit your arse down, lad.”

I took my place at the table and felt an immediate glow. I had never before been surrounded by so many people I loved all at one time. There was Cooper, Paisley, Chris, Phil, Jester, and Janey on one side. On the other were Toby, Cobby, Big Henry, Mel, and Ophelia.

She was the only person at the table who I didn’t know. It would have been a lie to say that I didn’t have a small amount of trepidation at meeting their new leading lady, who had taken over my mother’s role. That soon turned out to be unfounded. Though she was much, much younger than my mother had been when she toured with the Fiends, and thus didn’t have anywhere near as much acting experience, it was soon clear to see she had that magical ‘thing’ that made actors great. That indefinable presence that all great actors have, even when they aren’t on stage. What’s more, if beauty was a currency, then if you asked me, Ophelia was currently the richest person in all of Sunhampton.

She took a huge gulp of beer, then belched. “So, Lewis,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Toby talks about you all the time.”

I drank some of my own beer and made an even louder burp, prompting a look of disgust from Janey and a laugh from Cooper. “He does?” I said.

“He’s always telling stories of you and your ma,” she said, her voice carrying a twang that marked her as coming from Good Finch, one of the islands not so far east of Easterly that I’d always wanted to visit.

“Just as long as you know to believe only about a quarter of what Toby tells you.”

“Don’t worry. I think I’ve always been a good judge of character,” she said, smiling at me.

Sitting next to me, Paisley nudged my elbow and leaned close. “I don’t like this guy.”

“Who?”

“Toby.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because of how he treated you and your mother, Lewis. If you want a glass of red wine accidentally spilled over him, you just say the word.”

A roar of laughter from Cooper momentarily turned my attention his way, where he and Toby were joking about something. I leaned back towards Paisley.

“Right, that. He explained everything. It was my stepfather being an arse, as usual. They visited the manor, sent a bunch of letters. He held them back from us.”

“Oh. I’ve been thinking all night about how I could stab a fork in his thigh and make it look like an accident.”

“Maybe shelve that idea for now, Pais. But thanks anyway.”

“You just say the word, Lewis.”

“What did you come up with, anyway?”

“Huh?” said Paisley.

“How could you possibly stab someone with a fork and make it look like an accident?”

“I could act drunk and trip over. And then when he stopped yelling in pain and got mad, I’d turned on the ‘oh I’m so sorry, so sorry, I’m just a poor girl who can’t handle my drink’ act.”

“Let’s always be friends, Pais. And if I ever annoy you, make sure you tell me. You know, before you do anything.”

Paisley might have started off the night wanting to stab Toby with a fork, but by the time we’d eaten our mains and dessert and the table adopted a more informal ‘sit where you like’ policy, she was sitting next to him and laughing at the stories he told. Even the ones that weren’t actually funny if you really thought about it, but that Toby made them hilarious by his sheer presence.

When Alec rang the bell to signal last orders, everyone at the table groaned. Everyone but Phil, who had been working since the dark hours of the morning. He was leaning forward on the table, head against his arms, giving gentle snores.

“Wake up, Phil,” said Chris, putting his hand gently on his shoulder. “Alec will just lock up and leave you here all night if you don’t wake up. He did it to Douggie Fernglass once.”

We finished our drinks and then headed out of the tavern and into the bracing cold of the night, where Coiner’s Way sat peacefully in the darkness. Paisley gave a brief glance towards her store, before Chris put his arm around her.

“We’re taking the driver’s seat of the cart,” said Cooper. “Me and Janey-May here. No arguments. Anyone else is welcome to sit on the back.”

A hand fell on my shoulder. “Lewis.”

Standing under the orange glow of the street lamp that had been lit by Douggie Fernglass hours earlier, Toby’s face looked flushed red. It was his wine face. That was what all the Fiends used to call it. It used to mark the emergence of the man known as Saucy Toby, but not tonight. He looked strangely serious tonight.

“How did you like the delights of the only tavern in Sunhampton?” I asked.

“It’s a lovely place, Lewie. It’s just not for me, though. I like a city where not everyone knows each other so well they can tell you what you like to order for breakfast. But it’s nice.”

“Well, it was good catching up with you all.”

“You’ve built a lovely life for yourself here, Lewie. Lisabeth would have been proud.”

I had heard that from Cooper a few times while I’d lived here, but it meant a little bit more coming from someone who knew her and who had lived with her for years. More importantly, someone who wasn’t generous with kind words unless he really meant them.

“Thanks, Toby.”

He unbuttoned the huge, brass buttons of his winter coat. Underneath, he was wearing a frilly shirt that sported two gravy stains. Reaching into his inner pocket, he took out a box.

“Here. We found it in yours and Lisabeth’s old wagon when we were…you know, after you left.”

Opening the box, I saw an ornamental pen. Not just any pen, though – this was one that I recognized. It was the pen my mother got for her sixteenth birthday. She used to use it to sign autographs for people who crowded our wagons after plays. I clutched it tightly in my fist.

“Thanks, Toby.”

“Anytime. Now let’s get a move on, I’m freezing my arse off.”

Chapter 16

It was already light when I woke up. Given that it was almost winter, the skies only got fully bright around eight o’clock at this time of year, which meant I’d slept in way later than usual. Just how late was anyone’s guess, since I didn’t keep a clock in my room anymore. Jester had told me that clocks forced our inner selves to conform to time, rather than time conforming to us. I didn’t have a clue what that meant, but I had promised Jester I would at least try not having a clock in my room and see if I felt ‘free from the shackles of time’.

I soon discovered that it was actually nine thirty-eight in the morning, and I was the only one in the craftstead who’d woken up. Feeling bleary eyed and bleary minded, I rejected the artificed shower which used water heated by a glow stone in a tank, and took a cold shower in the outbuilding in the yard. The icy water shocked some life into me, and by the time I had dressed and eaten some toast, I felt like I could almost pass for a human being.

After a walk down the sloping hill, I headed along Coiner’s Way and to Mr. Flueitt’s store, next to Paisley’s. Her store, I noted with a smile, was open. I had no doubt whatsoever that even though she’d drunk more than a few glasses of wine last night – and even had a whiskey shot with Toby – Paisley wouldn’t have been even a second late in opening her store this morning.

Inside, Mr. Flueitt’s shop was a maze of brightly colored fabrics, model dummies wearing fancy shirts and trousers, and boxes and boxes of hats, scarves, and other accessories that I was so fashion-deprived that I didn’t even know what part of the body they were supposed to go on. The smell of coffee came from the counter where Mr. Flueitt was sketching what appeared to be a man’s suit in his notebook.

“Morning, Mr. Flueitt.”

“Oh! Lewis. What’s the day said to you so far?”

I was used to this strange question by now, having spoken to Mr. Flueitt more than a few times. He was full of witticisms and sayings from ‘back home’ as he called Esterford Gorge, where he was born.

“It’s saying, ‘Lewis, you drank too much last night, and I’m going to punish you for it.’”

Mr. Flueitt laughed. “You should take a leaf from young Paisley’s book.”

“What? She drank more than me!”

“Then she holds it much better. She was here earlier than me, although I suppose I don’t race down to Coiner’s Way to open up anymore, like I used to when I was younger and my blood still ran hot. Now, young man, what can I do for you?”

I explained to Mr. Flueitt that it was about time I expanded my wardrobe a little, and that I needed some shirts, trousers, a jacket or two, and maybe a nice pair of shoes that I could wear when I was going somewhere that didn’t smell of oil or require me to get covered in sawdust.

Mr. Flueitt took my measurements and then led me around his store, pulling shirts down from racks and holding them against me, and either sighing, pursing his lips in thought, or nodding as if he’d just heard the answer to a question. By the time we were done, I had maybe a quarter of a wardrobe’s worth of new clothes, which I got at a discount on account of him closing down.

“You’re sure?” I said. “I don’t mind paying full price. Y’know, support local businesses and all that.”

“Quite certain. Everything here must go. I’ve stopped tailoring new things. It’s not a one-in-one-out policy, but a get-everything-out policy instead.”

“What was the suit I saw you drawing, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, just a bit of fun. Occupying my mind, you know. I’ve always loved the design side of things rather than actually selling them. It’s a shame I never teamed up with Paisley. She’s the complete opposite.”

“Don’t I know it. When’s your lease up?” I asked.

“In a month. I don’t think Mr. Scholes has found a tenant yet.”

I had come here for some clothes. Just some new threads to make me something that at least approached fashionable. But now, standing here, I couldn’t help but look at the soon-to-be-available tailor shop and imagine it full of not shirts, hats, and jackets, but shelves crammed with artificed goods. I could picture my name on a sign above the door. I saw myself in the back room, which I would convert into a workshop, enchanting things with miodes and disenchanting spell scrolls until the ringing of a little bell told me that I had a customer.

Could I really have a shop of my own, though? Me, a mere initiate-ranked artificer? I had worked on projects for lots of customers lately, but there was no point fooling myself. They had come to the craftstead because they trusted Cooper, a master artificer, and they respected his judgment when he assigned their work to me. They might not be so open minded if this was my own shop, though.

Besides, I doubted that I could afford it right now. I’d need to pay for a deposit, a few month's rent in advance, and have enough gold set aside to keep me going while I built up my business.

Apart from that, what would Master Cooper think? I couldn’t live my whole life by his feelings, of course not. But that didn’t mean I would relish upsetting him. Then again, he called me annoying all the time. He might not care.

Maybe I ought to stick it out at the craftstead until I earn another rank or two. I’m happy there. It’s just that it’d be nice to have my own shop.

“Here you go, Lewis. Your bags, your change, and a wish from me that the day is kind to you.”

Still half-lost in thought, I grabbed my bag of new clothes. “Thanks, Mr. Flueitt. You too.”

I didn’t let myself get lost in daydreams for long, because I had work to do. With my crafter’s satchel filled with tools, a specially made storage container holding several miode pool containers, and my trusty crafter’s notebook, I headed to where the Fiends had parked their wagons.

Today, their camp was more occupied than usual. This, however, meant bad news for me. Acting is a worthy profession, and I had always had great respect for those who practiced it. As a craft, it ranked up there with the hardest to master. I had also, however, lived with actors for long enough to know that they didn’t always keep the early or long hours that other professions did.

Today, Toby was still asleep in his wagon. Similarly, Cobby and Mel hadn’t emerged from theirs yet, either. This meant that I was forced to start working on Big Henry’s wagon. The gentle giant had gone into Sunhampton to buy breakfast rolls for everyone.

It took me until lunchtime - stopping briefly when Henry returned with rolls not just for the Fiends but for me as well, having anticipated that I would show up for work today – but I managed to artifice Big Henry’s wagon and the Fiends’ costume and prop wagon. With careful placement of lots and lots of miodes, each wagon now boasted an internal size that was twice as big as before, without changing the outside appearance at all.

Someone new to artificery might see one of the endless water canteen that I had made for Paisley a while ago and ask me, ‘Why not make the wagons endless, too, Lewis?’

The answer was a simple one, really. The smaller an object, the easier it was to increase its internal size through artificery. I wished that it wasn’t this way; I could only imagine the problems that could be solved if, say, a cheap house could be made to fit a dozen people comfortably instead of only three, at a squeeze.

At lunchtime, Toby’s wagon door flew open. Saucy Toby from the night before was gone, and standing there was Old Bear. Free from makeup but generous with its alcohol blotching, his face seemed to be saying that he could use another night’s sleep or three.

“What’s all this hammering?” he yelled.

“Morning, Toby. Or should I say afternoon?”

“You should say nothing at all, you…” he began, and I smiled, feeling like I was back in old times. “Sorry, Lewis. You know how grouchy I get.”

“Indeed I do. I’m just artificing the wagons. I’ll need to work on yours soon.”

“Alright, alright. Just give me a minute. I need a bacon sandwich, a coffee, and a short while alone to contemplate my life choices.”

“I can help with one of those things. Here you go, Tobes,” said Big Henry, handing him a breakfast roll.

“Henry, you’re a bloody marvel. Brown sauce?”

“Yep.”

“Bread lightly toasted?”

“Yep.”

“Salted butter?”

“Yep,” said Big Henry.

“You’ve always been my favorite, Henry.”

Eventually, I was able to work on Toby’s wagon, and then on Cobby and Mel’s. This took me well into the late afternoon. I could have finished it sooner, except that Big Henry insisted on watching me work, fascinated by artificery and asking me to tell him what I was doing every step of the way.

Next came the part of crafting that I loved and dreaded in equal measure.

“Toby?” I said, fetching him from Big Henry’s wagon where he’d been napping while I worked on his. “Your wagon’s ready.”

He bolted upright. Two cucumber slices dropped from his eyes. “Finished?”

“Artificed and ready for use. Take a look at all the wagons and make sure you’re happy, and then I’ll need to ask you to sign off on this part of the work.”

What started with just Toby soon became a gathering of all the Fiends as they went from wagon to wagon, marveling at all the extra space they had. For folks who live on the road, space can be just as valuable as gold, and I had just increased their fortunes considerably. I watched with a satisfied smile on my face. The actual act of crafting was my first love, but seeing a customer’s pleased reaction was perhaps my second.

“Old Bear’s certainly happy,” said Ophelia.

The Fiends’ leading lady was wearing paint-stained dungarees over a paint-stained shirt. Her fingers, hands, and wrist were coated red, and errant red paint hadn’t spared her boots, either.

“I could always artifice your tent if you like,” I offered.

“Thanks, but I like things old fashioned.”

“Artificery’s a thousand years old, as a craft,” I said. “Not much more old fashioned than that.”

“Simple, then. I like things simple.”

“You really enjoy sleeping in a tent?”

“If it wasn’t so cold I’d sleep on the ground, my head on a pillow. I do that in spring, and part way through summer until the midgeflies come out and make it too uncomfortable. There’s nothing worse than waking up with your face covered in red bites the day of a performance. Toby went mad when that happened. Ever since, sleeping in my tent’s the closest thing I can get to being in the open.”

“Why’s it so important to you?” I asked.

“Just is. Anyway, let me see this artificery of yours,” she said, grasping my hand and pulling me toward Cobby’s wagon.

Ophelia was very interested in the ins and outs of my artificery. That, or she was just extremely talented as an actress. Either way, I’d spent years on the road with the Fiends, and I still couldn’t tell the difference, so I just decided to assume it was the former.

By the time I was done telling her how the miodes worked, Toby had finished inspecting the wagons himself, and he asked me to join him by the campfire to talk it over.

“You did some excellent work, Lewie,” he said. “Really grand. Exactly what we needed.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

Sitting on a chair beside the glowing flame, he took a pouch out from his inner pocket and started counting out gold coins.

“You pay when all the work is done, Toby,” I said. “And it’s better that you settle up at the craftstead, rather than here.”

“I’m settling up, alright, but not for the artificery. Here – this is gold that was owed to Lisabeth for her performances before she left. I never spent it, not a single coin. Not even when things were tough. It’s all here and accounted for, and I can show you gate receipts if you’d like.”

“This isn’t mine, Toby. I didn’t act in any play.”

“Nor have I ever spent even a second down an ore mine, yet my father’s possessions came to me, didn’t they? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of inheritance. It’s how you got your big ears.”

“No, of course I have, but…”

“But nothing,” he said. He reached across, took out both my hands and opened them, and started counting coins directly onto my palms.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to settle things, Lewie. Thought I’d never get the chance, tell you the truth. But I’m just glad I had a chance meeting with a town crier in Perentee, let me tell you that much.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Anyway. I want to make an addition to the work order, if I might be so bold.” He suddenly stood up. Old Bear was gone, and I found myself looking into the face of Actor Toby instead. His ‘acting’ voice boomed out, “So impressed am I, my dear boy, that I would like to ask that you employ your wondrous skills on something else.”

“What is it you want?”

“A new costume and prop wagon, my dear lad. A much larger one, a wagon fit for the Fiends.”

“But I just artificed your old one…”

“The winds of change have no heed for old plans, my young artificer,” he said, his voice booming out, “I have seen your work and been struck by the fist of inspiration.”

“Cooper and I aren’t wagon makers.”

“You made a cart, did you not?” said Toby.

I nodded. “Sure.”

“Then what is a cart, but a smaller wagon?”

This was a moment, surely, when Cooper’s under promise and overdeliver rule applied. I had the Simple Craft skill, which meant I could make things as well as artificing them, but surely an actual wagon was beyond me?

Then again, I had to remember the Trafford Three Factors of Leveling. My current Craft ability was still relatively low, which meant it would level up easily. As well as that, this was a project that would certainly test me, and thus would give me a good pot of experience at the end. Finally, Toby was a real customer with a real need for me to craft something. This job hit every single one of the leveling factors. If James Trafford was here, he’d tell me to stop wasting time and get started on the job.

The thing that James Trafford didn’t always appreciate, though, was that things that made sense in theory sometimes fell apart when you tapped them lightly with the hammer of practicality.

My first problem was that I didn’t even know where to begin when making a wagon. Structurally, it was different from a simple passenger cart because it needed to support a lot of weight, what with all the props and things that would be stored inside. Toby had also requested an area inside the wagon for the Fiends to relax in, as well as a section just for the application of make-up before a show. It would need lots of artificed storage space, too, for all their costumes, wigs, and props.

So, I needed a little guidance on how to begin, but Master Cooper didn’t have any books containing a plan for a wagon. When I went to ask Cooper about it he was in the middle of some complex artificery involving a bear trap, so I thought it wise not to break his concentration.

A trip into Sunhampton and then Tattersall’s Books also met with failure, when Percy Tattersall checked his bookstore catalog and then wrote down a list of the dozen books he had not just on crafting, but artificery, too.

“Great. Mind if I have a look through them?” I said.

“You can look through them all you want when they’re your books,” he replied.

“Mr. Tattersall…be reasonable. I want to know that the books have what I need before I spend coins on them. I can’t just buy all twelve and hope for the best.”

“Reasonable, young Mr. Cooper? Would you ask to take a nibble of Mrs. Grant’s sweet rolls before you buy them? Is it reasonable for my books to be covered in grease and oil and who knows what else is on those hands of yours? All for you to then not buy them?”

“Fair point.”

“Sorry, Lewis. I’m not being rude for the sake of it. But this isn’t a library.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand.”

As I headed toward the door, Mr. Tattersall spoke.

“Although…”

I turned around. “Yeah?”

“You’re working on your alchemy, aren’t you?” he said. “What if we could come to some kind of deal?”

“What kind?”

“I’m sure there’s some sort of alchemical spray that can get the glass on my storefront looking as clear as air. I want my windows so clean that you don’t even know you’re there.”

“That’d mean birds fly into them.”

“Rhetorically speaking, Lewis. What do you say? Is that something you could do?”

“And you’ll give me the books?” I said.

“I’ll let you look through them, if you wash your hands.”

It took maybe a second of imagining Paisley’s reaction when she learned I’d given Percy Tattersall the upper hand in their window competition to make my decision. “Sorry, Mr. Tattersall. I don’t know any alchemical formulas for cleaning glass.”

“Damn it! Then what’s Paisley using?”

Grinning, I said, “I have no idea.”

A trip to Sunhampton’s library yielded some fruit, in that libraries generally don’t get upset when you look through their books. In fact, Chester Huggill, the librarian, chatted with me from a nearby shelf which he was stocking with crime novels, while I perused the crafting section.

When none of the books in the library had any plans for making a wagon, I was forced to admit that I’d hit a wall. The only thing I could do would be to go back to the craftstead and ask Cooper, and then endure one of his lectures – which I’d earned, in fairness – on under promising and overdelivering.

Before doing that, I decided to call around at Jester’s cottage, on the outskirts of town. Finding his front door ajar, I knocked on it, called out, and then, getting no answer, decided to head inside.

I found my friend down in the basement. Until fairly recently this had been a hidden basement, but I had uncovered the secret artificery both in the cottage and on an old lamp, and had unlocked a passageway that led to his Aunt Sheila’s collection of rare and first edition books. The sale of some of these books was how Jester had afforded to quit his job, move to Sunhampton, and start his own accountancy business.

The passageway led to a single room at the end, where the glow of several lamps revealed the silhouetted form of Jester, who was kneeling on a mat spread across the floor.

At first I thought he might be in prayer, though he wasn’t religious as far as I knew. Then, from the smell of incense in the air and the strange shapes he contorted himself into, I concluded that he was stretching. I waited in the doorway patiently, not wanting to break his concentration.

Finally, he finished and then, with a sigh, straightened up. When he saw me, he gave a start.

“Lewis!”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to barge in, but you left your front door open.”

“Again? Why do I keep doing that? Anyway, thank you. Good thing you stopped by. I could have been robbed blind and not know it.”

I looked around at the basement hideaway. Over in the corner there was a desk where Jester used to work on his accounts. He had stopped doing this when he rented an office on Coiner’s Way, not wanting to bring his work home with him. This was all part of his new ‘inner glow’ philosophy; work belonged at work, and his home was for relaxation. My life at the craftstead was pretty much the opposite. I couldn’t move for reminders of my work – half-finished projects in the living room, miode pool containers on the sideboard waiting to be washed.

Set against the walls were the bookshelves where his Aunt Sheila’s old books were kept. The shelves were less full than before, since Jester had sold some of the books to fund his new business.

“Can I get you a tea or a snack?” he asked.

“I’ll take a sweet roll and a coffee, if that’s okay. And maybe a-”

I stopped talking, my gaze drawn to the bookshelves where a particular tome caught my eye. I had been in this basement perhaps half a dozen times and never noticed it amongst the hundreds of other books, but I had never come in here with the same particular need that I had today. Sometimes, our brains work on a problem when our conscious layer of thought has temporarily gone fishing. Master Cooper always said, “Whenever you’re stuck, do something else. Anything else. Don’t let yourself even think about it for a second. The answer will come.”

But it wasn’t just that. This book seemed to protrude out from the others. Only by half an inch, but enough to make it stand out.

“You okay, Lewis?”

“Yeah, just let me check something…”

I pulled the book from the shelf. The title, written in small font on the spine and much larger font on the front cover, was ‘Wagons, Carts, and Everything Else With Wheels: A Crafter’s Guide.’

My pulse picked up in a way that would not have happened to anyone else in the whole of Easterly who’d picked up this very book. It was hardly a thrilling adventure full of peril and romance. To me, though, there was no better book in the world right now.

Flicking through it, I found that the whole last third of the book was dedicated to wagon-making. This was good. Too good, even. Almost like the bookcase had known that I needed this book.

An idea came to me then. One I hadn’t considered before, but which seemed so obvious that I could have slapped my own forehead.

But first things first. I snapped the book shut. Then, chiding myself for treating Jester’s book without enough care, I loosened my grip so as not to mark it.

“Jester…how much for this book?”

“‘Wagons, Carts, and Everything Else With Wheels.’ You really want this?”

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything. Well, not that much. But if you gave me a choice of a sweet roll and this book right now, I’d choose the book. How much for me to buy it from you?

“Just have it.”

“No, I can’t do that. It might be a first edition, or something.”

“Then borrow it,” said Jester.

“What if I get grease or oil all over it?” I said, remembering what Percy Tattersall had told me. “Is it reasonable for your book to get covered in grease and oil and who knows what else is on these hands of mine?”

“Lewis, I really don’t mind. There are so many books here, and honestly, I very much doubt that a book about carts and wagons is going to be worth a lot, first edition or not. I’ve spent a good while now with Percy Tattersall and watched him valuing my books. I’m beginning to pick up a thing or two about it. I think this book is probably worth more to you than to anyone else.”

“Okay, well I have a different way to pay you back. Just watch this.”

My Intermediate Enchantment, Simple Alchemy, and Simple Craft and Forge tokens were set in my token bracelet, so I swapped out the Alchemy one for Intermediate Disenchantment.

Tapping the token, I set my Detect Enchantment ability to work. Though Jester wouldn’t have been able to see it, thin tendrils of yellow light spread from my bracelet. Four of them, as fine as the thinnest thread, set off in different directions and searched through the room. Three of them hit nothing and faded away, but the fourth lingered for a while. Then, it also faded.

“What am I supposed to be watching?” asked Jester.

“Not sure. It’s just a suspicion I have. Give me a second.”

I had spent quite a while in this very cottage not long ago, struggling to find secret artificery that Jester’s uncle had paid for only to meet disappointment. I knew how hard it was to detect artificery sometimes. Leveling up to Intermediate was what had done the trick the last time, but it didn’t mean my ability was infallible.

“Let’s try this again.”

I used my Detect Enchantment ability once more, feeling my crafting stamina drain just a little as the thin threads of light left me and swept through the room, seeking out artificery. One of them fell away like a broken cobweb, shortly followed by another, and then the third. I began to think that my artificer’s instincts were wrong.

But then, the last tendril of light settled upon the bookcase, glowing all over its frame and along the rows of books.

“Got it!” I said.

“What?”

“The bookshelves, Jester. They’re artificed.”

“For that?”

“It’s time to find that out.”

This time, I used the Identify Enchantment ability from my Intermediate Enchantment skill tree. While Detect Enchantment would show me the presence of miodes, Identify Enchantment would tell me what they actually were. It took me only one attempt to reveal what kind of miodes the bookshelf was holding.

Miode: Increased Storage

Miode: Telepathy

Miode: Self-Organization

Sometimes, working out what artificery something held was a little like solving a puzzle. One of Cooper’s friends, Pickle Pulvers, often came to the craftstead with a cartload of unidentified artificed items, and it was our job to work out what they did. For lower-level artificery, my tokens fed the whole information back to me – which miodes were used and how they combined to produce an artificeric effect. It was like someone giving you a recipe along with a description of the final dish.

For higher level artificery, however, my Intermediate Enchantment skill tree would only give me the recipe, and leave me to use my detective skills in working out what the final dish was supposed to be. This time, I thought I already had the puzzle pretty much solved.

“The bookshelves are artificed for increased storage,” I told Jester. “The books you see now aren’t the whole catalog. I suspect there are more. How many more, I don’t know.”

“You’re joking? How do we find them?”

“There’s normally a switch or a lever or something that rotates the inventory, but I can’t see one here. There are, however, a couple of other miodes at play.”

I could see a familiar look of fascination take hold in Jester’s blue eyes, as always when I talked about artificery to him. “Oh? Don’t spare me the details.”

“There are telepathy miodes, which I think are there to read your mind for one particular purpose: to find out what kind of book you need.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “And then there are also self-organizing miodes, which means the shelves can change their books on their own. Add all this together, and you get bookshelves that read your mind to find out what book you need, check a hidden catalog, then serve the book to you if it’s available.”

Jester stared at the bookshelves for a while and then crossed the room, sinking into the chair beside his old work desk. “I can hardly believe…”

“Have you never been thinking about something, and then a book has just caught your eye out of nowhere?”

“Well…I did need a reference for Stow market by-laws last week, and there just so happened to be a book with the regulations for almost every market in Easterly sitting there on the shelf. It was hopelessly out of date, though.”

“Right – because when your uncle died, your aunt didn’t care about the books and didn’t keep adding to them. Jester, there may be way more books here than we thought.”

“But how do we find them?”

“There must be a reference somewhere. I’m guessing your uncle kept a record of them so he could call for whatever book he needed.”

“I’ve combed through the cottage three times over,” said Jester, “What with moving in, and then having to move all my things out again when we found all that black mold and had to pay Harold Smithwestwick to sort it out. I’ve never seen a ledger for the books.”

“Hmm. There will be one around. In any case, is telling you all of this enough payment for me to keep the wagon book?”

“I told you, take it. I suppose I have some searching to do. This will be fun, like a treasure hunt.”

Chapter 17

The Sunny Café served the best cooked breakfasts in Sunhampton. There, I said it. That was a bold claim, yes, but I would have stuck by it when challenged by anyone. The best overall cooking came from Zakariya Spencer at the King’s Head, and Mrs. Grant at Rolls and Dough was the greatest baker in town, bar none. But Spruce Wilkinson, standing in the café kitchen wearing his white apron and puffy hat that his niece got him for his forty-eighth birthday, was the breakfast king of Easterly, if you asked me.

Sitting across from me that morning, Phil pushed his half of a fried tomato around his plate, leaving a trail of grease and red juice over the ceramic. If it was possible for someone to get lost in their thoughts, then my friend needed a compass, map, and maybe even a tour guide to find his way out. Paisley, sitting to my right, watched him for a while, alternating between blowing on and then sipping her sweet tea.

“Copper for your thoughts?” she said.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Phil.

“Then what did that tomato do for you to drag it around your plate like that?”

He set his fork down on his napkin. “Do you ever think you shouldn’t be there?” he said. “In your store, I mean. Oh, you know what, forget it.”

“No, come on. What do you mean about ‘being there’?”

“Just whether you deserve it.”

Paisley gave me a worried glance.

“Deserve what?” I asked.

Phil didn’t look up from his plate. “I just feel like a faker sometimes, is all. Renting workspace from Mr. Cooper, building my little ships. It makes me feel like a kid again, sitting in my room playing pretend.”

Spruce Wilkinson approached us bearing a plate, which he set down on the table. “Second order of a scones and cream for Ms. Porter.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Paisley.

“Lewis,” said Spruce. “Any word on the old…you know…the ordering system?”

“Soon, Mr. Wilkinson, I promise. Just need to iron out a few wrinkles.”

“Make sure you use lots of steam,” said Spruce, then walked away, laughing at his own joke.

Paisley cut her scone in half horizontally, lifted off the top section and spread butter evenly across it. She took her time, showing great decorum and poise. She was almost a crafter herself with the way she buttered the snack. Then she crammed the whole thing in her mouth and couldn’t speak for a full three minutes while she chewed.

Phil and I watched, both of us as astonished as the other at the spectacle. When Paisley was done, she used her sleeve to wipe crumbs from her mouth.

“You know what you need, Phil?” she said. “You need to sell one of your ships. That’ll get rid of all this faker talk. You just need to take a little gold from someone. I could always clear a shelf in my store. You could sell one of your galleons or something. I’d charge a measly ten percent commission.”

“Thanks, Ms. Paisley, but I really don’t think they’re good enough. It’d feel wrong, them taking up room in your store.”

“Call me Paisley, Phil. Hells, we’ve been over this. You’ve known me all my life.”

“Sorry. Old habits.”

“Why don’t we work a market?” She suddenly reached out, grabbing my sleeve and staring me dead in the eyes. “Yeah! We can work a market! Lewis, what do you think? It’s been ages! Let’s take Phil to the market!”

I always had fond memories of markets with Paisley. It was how we met, after all, right here in Sunhampton on an overcast Sunday. For my first year as an apprentice, we had traveled around Easterly almost every weekend, selling things together. If it wasn’t for markets, Paisley might just be someone who I saw in town from time to time and maybe said hello to. I’d be forever grateful that a shared love of gold brought us closer together. Add that to the fact that a market might be just the cure for Phil’s feelings of being a model making imposter, there was no chance of me saying no.

We settled on going to the flea market in Hattersdale. People sold lots of old antiques and those kinds of things there, which meant there would be people attending with an eye for decorative ornaments. Phil’s ships would have a great chance of sailing the waters of commerce, and perhaps turning pirate and plundering a coin pouch here or there.

That afternoon, I began making a few things that I could sell. Normally, I would have used my artificery to craft things that really stood out. My mirror of projection, for instance, which could show you how you’d look with a new haircut, a smaller nose, or a fuller beard. Right now, though, I really needed to work on my Simple Craft and Forge and my Simple Tinkering skill trees any chance I got, so that I could aim toward earning the Intermediate level.

With that in mind, I started crafting. The workshop was a blur of busyness, what with me sawing, hammering, and gluing all day, and with Phil two workbenches across from me, working on the ships he’d decided to sell at the market so that they’d be absolutely perfect.

“Lewis, do you think I could use some of that salve, please?” said Phil.

I rummaged in my pocket, grabbed a vial and tossed it across the workshop. “They’re being rather loud today, aren’t they?”

“How long do you think it’ll go on for?”

“I asked Simon,” I told him, “And he said ‘it takes as long as it takes.’”

With a dab of salve on both my ears, the noise from the builders outside faded to a dull drone in the background, one that actually helped me concentrate rather than distract me.

Free to work without disturbance, I got to it, employing abilities from two of my skill trees to steadily assemble a collection of things for the flea market. Since it was only a few days away I had to use my abilities to make things quickly rather than take my time, but that was fine. Crafting things for the market wasn’t exactly a challenge.

Besides, I had a process to follow. If I was making something completely new, I used my Craft Invent or Tinker Invent abilities for inspiration. Craft Invent let me combine two items. If they were compatible, they would become something new.

This worked, for instance, when I crafted a chess board, combined it with a set of tinker gears using Craft Invent, and ended up with a new kind of puzzle box based on the ancient pastime. This was a fun way to come up with new things that I couldn’t have thought of with the more logical side of my brain.

With a bunch of items crafted or invented, I used my Upgrade ability to boost the quality of each one, and finally, finished with a quick use of Analyze, so that I could both level the ability and gauge how much each new creation was worth. Using all my skills methodically like this was sort of like a barbarian doing an all-round workout with weighted sandbags, rather than focusing on one muscle. A nice, tiring, all-round crafting regime that got all my little crafting muscles aching. And boy, was it a nice ache. I never, ever felt better than after a heavy session of making things, and I hoped that feeling wouldn’t ever go away.

By the evening before the market, I was finished. Since it was raining outside and the builders had left their bags of cement under the awning outside the workshop and took up all the room, I stored my things indoors. Phil, similarly, had left all his ships lined neatly on a workbench, ready to be wrapped with foam and packed in a box tomorrow.

“Interesting collection,” said Phil.

“I like to fire off a few arrows in all directions and hope something hits,” I said. “The toolsets are because…well…everyone needs tools, don’t they? And screwdrivers and hammers are the first things I ever sold at a market. I like to make more of them from time to time to gauge my progress. Though I haven’t leveled my Craft abilities anywhere near enough, so it’s not a great ego boost, if I’m honest. They’re good. Not great, but not merely passable, either. Good.”

“I’m sure they’ll find a place in many homes,” said Phil. “Probably in a toolbox that a well-intentioned person buys and then puts in the closet under their sink, and never touches again.”

“Well, that’s my ego lifted.”

“What are those?” said Phil, pointing at a pile of wooden boxes stacked on top of each other.

“Puzzle boxes. Thought I’d sell something a little fun, rather than only useful stuff. They’re perfect because I had to use my Craft and my Tinkering skill trees to make them. I have some tinkered wind-up toys for kids, too. Or adults, I guess – no reason we have to get boring when we grow up, is there?”

Truth be told, I wasn’t all that worried about whether people bought them or not. Not at this market, at least. Gold wasn’t the most pressing of my issues right now, and besides, I was going there to support Phil.

Much more important to me was that working for a couple of days and steadily using my abilities from my Simple Craft and Forge and Simple Tinkering skill trees had earned me a few nice level ups.

I decided that now, with the crafting finished and nothing left to do but get a good night’s sleep so I was fresh in the morning, was a good time to review the token text.

Craft leveled to 11 [Simple Craft and Forge]

Upgrade leveled to 9 [Simple Craft and Forge]

Craft Invent leveled to 6 [Simple Craft and Forge]

Analyze leveled to 3 [Simple Craft and Forge]

Simple Craft and Forge skill tree leveled to 4!

- Craft quality improved

- Upgrade will now add minimum of 2 effects to each item

- Crafting stamina increased

Tinker leveled to 8 [Simple Tinkering]

Tinker invent leveled to 5 [Simple Tinkering]

Simple Tinkering skill tree leveled to 2!

- Tinkering complexity increased

- Crafting stamina increased

- Ability gained: Tinkerer’s Focus

The Tinkerer’s Focus ability was unique in that it didn’t directly relate to the creation, repair, upgrading, or analyzing of an item. Instead, it let me use up crafting stamina in exchange for being able to enter a deep state of focus, something that was essential for tinkerers. Especially for higher-ranked ones who worked on advanced tinkered systems with lots of complex gears and levers.

Experimenting with it, I washed the muting salve from my ears, instantly letting the building sounds from the yard flood back. Activating Tinkerer’s Focus, I felt a brief pinch inside my body, somewhere around my chest but deeper, as my crafting stamina drained.

A mere half second later, not only did the sounds from the yard quiet to a whisper, but my peripheral vision seemed to blur and unblur on command, allowing me to focus intently on whatever I wanted. Similarly, all the different waves of thought I had in my head – the same waves everyone has, probably, where our brains are dealing with dozens if not hundreds of processes and ideas at once – seemed to smooth out, the waters of thought in the ocean of my mind becoming still as though it was a calm summer’s evening. The waves had nowhere to go but the shore, which they gently lapped towards.

Hattersdale’s flea market was a popular day trip for people in this part of Easterly. There were plenty of cafes and restaurants to eat at, all of which sold the famous Hattie’s Tatties, as people called the popular potato and mustard dish. The market itself was filled end to end with stalls where folks once used to sell exclusively second hand goods, which was how it earned the ‘flea’ part of its name. These days it was just a name, and there were as many people there selling new products as old.

Things had changed a little in Hattersdale since I had last visited. They were completing work on Wrenick Street, for one. This was one of the main routes to the market, and its closure meant the other three streets got more traffic. I was glad that Paisley, using her artificed Marketeer’s Almanac, had learned of this in advance and insisted we get there especially early.

“You boys set up, I’ll go take care of the sweet roll situation,” she said, when we arrived at the two pitches we’d paid for.

“What situation?” asked Phil.

“That we haven’t got any.”

There was no use arguing with Paisley. I knew from many, many experiences now that setting up our stall was my responsibility. Phil hadn’t learned that yet, but he seemed too nervous to care. I’d never seen a person looking so anxious while setting up a market stall.

“Relax,” I told him. “You’re not on stage.”

“But if I don’t set up my stall just right…”

“Nobody will care. Everyone who walks past us today is going to be doing just that – walking past. They don’t care about us or our stalls. They’re lost in their own worlds. That sounds harsh, but it’s actually a blessing. It means you can relax and stop worrying that the whole world is watching you and your ships.”

“Thanks, Lewis. I’ll try.”

“No problem. And here’s a tip: when someone is looking at your things, try to just pretend they aren’t there. Don’t stare at them, because people don’t like being watched or feeling like they’re under pressure.”

“Alright. I’ll do my best. And if they ask me a question?”

“Well yes, you can stop pretending and answer them.”

Paisley returned soon, and after handing a sweet roll and a coffee each to Phil and me, proceeded to rearrange the displays of my stall and Phil’s. Again, I had worked enough markets with Paisley to expect this, but Phil seemed to take her work as an affront.

“I really think the galleon should go just there, exactly where I placed it,” he said.

“I’m an adept-ranked merchant, Phil.”

“Even so…”

“Okay,” said Paisley, throwing her hands up in a surrender pose. “It’s your stall.”

By midday, I had sold a few toolsets and three puzzle boxes. And by ‘I’, I obviously meant Paisley. She had worked the passersby like a master, snagging the attention of more than a few of them with her sweet, baited words, and then letting my products haul the fish fully out of the water.

Phil, however, hadn’t had any luck at all. He hadn’t even sold a single thing. Paisley had spent the last few hours pretending not to notice, even though I could see it was killing her to look at Phil’s suboptimal stall display without being able to correct it.

“Ms. Porter…Paisley…” began Phil. “I’m sorry about earlier. Do you think you could take a look at my ships?”

Paisley feigned reluctance for all of a second, before breaking out into a bright smile.

“Of course! I mean, I haven’t really thought about it, but if you give me a moment I suppose I might come up with something.”

She quickly set to rearranging how Phil had displayed his ships, moving a frigate here and a galleon there, utilizing her merchant skills to full effect so she could maximize how they caught people’s attention. The whole thing must have taken two minutes from Phil asking her, to her rearranging everything. It was pretty quick work for someone who hadn’t given it any thought.

“There. That might help,” she said.

“Thank you very much.”

“You might also calm yourself down, Phil. You’re trying just a little bit too hard. Trust me, people are put off by pushy merchants.”

“I really don’t think I’m being…oh, alright. I’ll try.”

Over the next couple of hours, Phil seemed to undergo several changes in personality. It was amusing, actually, watching as an observer. He tried ignoring customers completely, to the point he blanked a man who asked a question about the sails on one of his boats. When Paisley nudged him he realized he’d gone too far and answered the man, but then it was too late.

Then he went the other way, becoming jovial and friendly in a way that I had never seen before. I could hardly believe it. When Phil smiled at a passing old lady and told her she’d brightened his day just by being there, I thought I might fall off my chair in shock.

None of it worked, though. The afternoon wore on and not a single ship left his stall, not a measly coin crossed his palms. As the sun tired in the sky, so did Phil tire of his attempts to sell anything.

“Forget it,” he said aloud, maybe to me and Paisley but most likely just to himself. “Nobody wants a bunch of silly ships. Maybe I’ll learn how to cook Hattie’s Tatties and sell those. The guy over there with a Tattie stall is making a fortune.”

Just then, a young boy left his parents and drifted over to Phil’s stall as if he were another fish caught on Paisley’s line. His eyes widened in that way children’s eyes often do before they learn to always keep them narrowed. His gaze fell over the ships, no doubt imagining all the adventures he could concoct if they were his.

“Peter don’t-” said his mother behind him.

Too late. Little Peter reached out and grabbed a ship, closing his hands around it roughly like he was picking up a melon. I felt my heart stop for just a second before it immediately began to race, as if it had catching up to do. Phil’s expression was one of chalk-white shock as he watched the boy’s fingers tightly grasp the rigging.

“Put that down right now, you little brat!” he snapped.

The boy dropped the ship. The wooden hull made a cracking sound. His parents came over, the father – standing at a very tall six feet and four or five inches – wearing a look of anger that might have been directed at Peter, or just as equally could be at Phil’s outburst.

I got ready to come to my friend’s side as a witness. Maybe even a shield, if the man reacted badly.

The father reached into his pocket and then pulled his hand out, clenched in a fist. Phil tensed. Then, the man opened his fist, letting gold coins fall onto Phil’s stall.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We keep telling him not to just snatch, but, you know what kids are like.”

“I do,” said Phil sagely, despite knowing nothing whatsoever about children.

“Does this cover it?” asked the father.

Phil quickly counted the gold, his eyes going left and right. “More than enough, actually.”

“Well, sorry again. Peter, say sorry.”

“No.”

The father huffed, putting his arm around Peter to lead him away. As they went, Phil called out.

“You’ve forgotten the ship,” he said.

“Oh, it’s okay,” answered the man with a dismissive wave.

“But you paid for it.”

“I paid because Peter here broke it. You can keep the ship.”

I felt so bad for Phil then. Yes, he’d technically made a sale without even having to part with a model, but it would have been better if the whole thing had never happened. This was the worst outcome, really. Almost like someone had paid him so they didn’t have to have one of his ships.

It was then that Phil started packing away his models into his foam-lined boxes, taking not even an ounce of the precaution he’d shown when doing the same thing earlier that morning. Just like little Peter, it seemed Phil was the one handling melons now, shoving them into boxes without a care.

“Do you think we should…” I began, not knowing what the ‘should’ would even be.

“Leave him,” said Paisley. “I don’t think it would help at this point. Jester says all anger needs an outlet, or the steam builds and builds.”

Phil had packed away half of his model ships, when a man made a beeline directly to his stall. Reaching it and standing in front of the ships that Phil hadn’t packed yet, he instantly wore a look of awe, one that matched the look on little Peter’s face minutes ago. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said that this man was Peter from the future, making a nostalgic trip to the past, to the day he got told off by a ship seller and – hopefully – changed his ways.

Unlike Peter, the man didn’t touch the ships. In fact, he seemed almost in awe of them, as if they were sacred objects and mustn’t be handled.

“Is that a Sallyringer sloop?” he said.

Phil slowly turned around. “Yes, it is.”

“It’s absolutely marvelous.”

Phil gave a suspicious glance toward Paisley and me, as if he suspected we had set the whole thing up. I wouldn’t have put it past Paisley, except she’d been with me the whole time.

“Say thank you,” Paisley reminded him.

“Right. Much appreciated. Glad you like it,” said Phil.

The man nodded. “It will look great on my mantlepiece. Pride of place. My sitting room is barer than a baboon’s rump. And this galleon, here, how much for it? Do you think you could cut me a deal if I buy both of them? Or if I buy this frigate here, too?”

Thirty minutes after the market manager had rung the last bell, all the customers had drifted away and the vendors had packed up their things. Carts left the busy three streets that bore the brunt of the traffic, and this was made worse when the wheel of one merchant’s cart fell apart, forcing a hold up for all cart and wagon traffic. One vendor, a waffle and pancake seller, took advantage of this by flogging his unsold stock to the merchants who were queued up.

As for us, the cart we’d used to transport our things here would be returning to Sunhampton just a little bit lighter than it had been that morning. Before heading home, we stopped by Hot Spuds, a café that was run by Mrs. Grant’s cousin, of all people. There, we took a table by the window and ordered a serving of Hattie’s Tatties each. Lamps placed evenly throughout the room gave off a bright glow, but Phil’s smile was even more illuminating.

“Feel better?” asked Paisley, though her mouth was so full of spud that Phil couldn’t understand her, and I had to translate.

“Very much so. It was technically five sales, I suppose. Four to the man, one to the little brat.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said.

“I’m an official model maker now,” said Phil, tapping his coat pocket and letting his coins jingle.

“You were already a model maker,” I replied. “Now you’re just one who’s treating me and Paisley to Hattie’s Tatties.”

Chapter 18

One morning not long after our trip to Hattersdale, I was busy using the tinkered sharpening machine to freshen up all our workshop saws and chisels, my mind churning all my disparate thoughts into butter. I had so much to do that if I let myself dwell on it, it was overwhelming. I still hadn’t made much progress on Toby’s wagon or set changing device, and then there was Spruce Wilksinson’s ordering system, along with a dozen smaller jobs for other customers. For the first time in my life as an artificer, I needed a break. Something to give my mind a rest.

A bell rang outside. Heading across the yard, I kneeled down and unlocked the padlocks on the artificed cart and let it head toward the hill, where I knew it would begin the descent towards town and soon reach whoever had rung the bell.

The padlocks on the artificed cart were Janey’s idea. A few weeks ago, some kids in town sneaked out of their houses to cause havoc, and part of their midnight mischief was to ring the bell that we’d placed by our sign at the foot of the hill, the one that made the artificed cart leave the craftstead and roll down into town. Luckily they hadn’t stolen the cart once it reached the bottom of the hill.

This was a big oversight. One which Cooper had foreseen, but hadn’t mentioned to me because he wanted to see if I would figure it out for myself. At least, that was what he said. The fact that I hadn’t seemed to cause him great joy.

“Still got a few things to teach you, haven’t I?” he said, winking at Janey.

“You didn’t teach me anything. The opposite. You just let me make the mistake.”

“Aye, and the ‘letting’ part is the biggest lesson. It’s all well and good knowing that bears are dangerous, my lad, but actually getting chased by one is what will really make you think.”

“Remind me not to go hiking with you again,” I said.

So, I had created artificed padlocks that not only locked the cart in place when we didn’t want customers to use it, but temporarily soothed the cart’s artificery to sleep so that it didn’t even try to move when the bell rang. This meant we had full control over it, and there was no danger of troublesome kids messing around with it in the dead of night.

Across from me, over by the alchemy workshop which looked more and more like an actual building by the day, Simon and Potter stared at the cart just as it disappeared down the hill. They had seen artificery before; everyone in Easterly had, especially builders who had probably worked with artificers on construction projects in the past. Like most people, though, artificery to them was like spotting a rainbow. They knew it existed, they’d seen it before, and yet they couldn’t help but stare when it appeared in front of them.

Today, though, no naughty kids had rung the bell. Instead, when the cart returned a while later and reached the crest of the hill, before click-clacking into the craftstead yard, I was surprised to see Mrs. Greaves sitting on the back of it.

Simon elbowed Potter and then nodded in the cart’s direction. Seeing who our visitor was, Potter’s face paled and the pair of builders quickly realized they had a job to do across the yard, far away from the cart.

I understood their feelings. I’d never met Mrs. Greaves, but I’d seen her in town once or twice. More importantly, I’d heard the whispers.

‘She breeds demons,’ some people said. ‘Vicious little things with no soul. If you go into the woods on Nighdark’s Eve, you’ll see her dancing around with them, drinking blood from cups made of bone.’

There were maybe a dozen rumors like this about Mrs. Greaves, all of which were ludicrous. Unfortunately, many of them gained a foothold among some of the more superstitious folks in Sunhampton. More sensible folks, like Lee Hunter who spent lots of time in the woods, said it was all ‘a bunch of bullcrap’ and that Mrs. Greaves was a lovely lady who always had time for a cup of tea and a chat. She just didn’t like company, that was all. Crowds made her nervous, so she kept to herself.

Similarly, Chris, who had the Intermediate Lore and Rumor skill tree, was easily able to tell a lie from fact, and he declared that Mrs. Greaves was nothing but a delightful woman who disliked people and just preferred to live somewhere quiet. The demons that she bred were actually little terrier pups that, although they sometimes barked at Connor Perry when he delivered a rare piece of mail to her woodland home, were most definitely in possession of souls.

The cart stopped and almost seemed to sigh from the weight it had carried. Mrs. Greaves was a tall woman, taller than me by a few inches, and she was heavyset. Not overweight, exactly, but not fit, either. The bulk just seemed to suit her, lending her an appearance of strength.

She hopped down from the cart more deftly than I expected. From the pockets of her thick coat, which served to double her bulk, a bundle of sticks tied together with twine protruded. Her coat had been torn and then mended in a dozen places, judging by the different colored threads laced through it here and there.

“Good morning, Mrs. Greaves,” I said, then remembered a greeting Paisley had said I should use when customers visited the craftstead. She had been telling Master Cooper and me that we really needed to be a bit more professional. And since Cooper wasn’t going to listen, I felt I should make an effort. “Welcome to Cooper and Cooper Artificery. How can I help you today?”

“Oooh, so polite,” she answered, with a wide, joyous grin that seemed to warm the air around us. “I can tell you’re not actually related to Jack. Is he around?”

“He and Janey – Ms. Morgan – are out at an apprentice fair. Can I help?”

“Probably not. I’ll come back.”

“Woah!” I said, and then, remembering my professionalism, “I mean, pardon me for a second…err…madam. If you need artificery, then I can help.”

“Hmm. Not to be rude, but I’ll come back.”

“I’m an initiate-ranked artificer,” I said, more forcefully than I’d intended. “I can mostly likely help with whatever you need. If I can’t, I’ll just take your details and speak with Master Cooper when he’s back.”

She paused, absent-mindedly toying with the twigs sticking out from her pocket. Then, she seemed to make a decision. “Right you are. Get the kettle on, laddo, and we’ll talk.”

I got the kettle on, and soon, Mrs. Greaves and I sat in the snug warmth of the workshop, where she settled on a stool and told me what she was looking for.

“I need a system for my plants,” she said. “I’m going to visit my sister, Clara, next month. Haven’t seen her in years. I need to know my garden’s taken care of while I’m gone. I’d pay someone, but there’s so much to do, and I wouldn’t be able to trust anyone else.”

“So you’re looking for some kind of artificed watering system?” I said.

She nodded.

I immediately began making plans in my mind for artificed watering cans and the like. But then, while thinking about my Simple Craft and Forge and Simple Tinkering skill trees, I had another idea. “Better yet, a tinkered system might be better suited. Something that runs like clockwork. I’m assuming your plants need to be watered on a schedule?”

“Watered and fed,” she said.

“And fed?”

She smiled. “I think perhaps you ought to see my garden, then you’ll understand.”

Mrs. Greaves’ home was an old, long-abandoned church in the woods near Sunhampton, not too far away from where I went foraging. She’d bought it to save it from becoming derelict, and had, over the years, turned it into a delightful, cozy little home.

But more interesting than her house was her garden, if that was even the right word for it. A paved pathway led away from her house and went through the woods for a few paces, terminating at a huge set of iron gates. Written on a wooden sign was the word, ‘Beware.’

It was there that I learned why Mrs. Greaves thought she needed a master crafter, and not an initiate-ranked one like me. Her garden was a thing of wonder. Wonder and fear, actually. It made me a little nervous just to be there.

This wasn’t a place filled with rose bushes and vegetable patches. Instead, it was packed fence to fence with the hugest, most exotic plants and flowers that I’d ever seen. Some of the monstrous things looked almost sentient, from vast bushes filled with vines that lapped this way and that as I passed them, to flytraps the size of sheds, which opened and closed their mouths and made gurgling sounds as though they were trying to talk to me.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Greaves told me, “The bigger and scarier the plant, the less likely it is to hurt you.”

One plant flicked out a vine at me when I got too close. It managed to steal my crafter’s notebook from my pocket before Mrs. Greaves rebuked it and handed my prized book back to me.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m here so often that I know exactly where to stand. You’ll have to be careful when you’re working. Until they get used to you.”

“Until they get used to me?”

“Oh, just be confident. Don’t show fear, but be respectful, too. They’ll leave you alone soon enough. They’re like my pups, always taking an interest in visitors. But they soon get bored.”

“Right,” I said, feigning confidence. “So I suppose we’d better talk about what you want. I’ll need specifics please, Mrs. Greaves.”

I left her garden with a bacon sandwich in my belly, three pages in my crafter’s notebook filled with what Mrs. Greaves wanted her new garden system to do, and a head crammed with ideas. Not to mention a healthy, new respect for plant life and a resolution not to spend much time alone here.

At the workshop, I quickly got to work. As ever with a new, interesting project, I found that my inner crafter was invigorated, excited, and eager to get past the planning stage and really get started on the actual crafting. I forced myself to be patient, though. This would be a complex tinkered system that watered her plants not only at the right times but at exactly the right amounts. It would also need to feed some of her plants with specially made brews, which would be stored in vats all around the garden.

I spent the whole of the next week in the workshop with piles of books related to tinkering stacked on the workbench. Some of them belonged to Cooper, and I had borrowed others from the town library, stretching the ‘maximum of eight books at once’ policy to breaking point.

Phil, meanwhile, hummed and sang and danced around the workshop as he worked on a new model. I might once have found this distracting, but instead I was actually happy for him. He’d recently made a sale, and his arthritis wasn’t bothering him as much. He deserved to be happy and I wasn’t going to dampen that. Besides, whenever his joy became a little too much I could just use a burst of Tinkerer’s Focus.

My plan for Mrs. Greaves’ system began life as two separate entities: the ideas in my head, and the tinkering knowledge contained in the books I had collected. With some hard work, I fused these two creatures together, committing them to a double page in my notebook. After sleeping on the first draft of my plan, I made a few changes using a red pencil, and then, finally, transferred the plan to a bigger spread of drafting paper.

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Greaves. “I’m sorry, but this just won’t do.”

We were in the shed at the end of her garden, though calling it a shed was doing it an injustice. This place was almost as big as Cooper’s workshop. I supposed it had to be, what with the various barrels of plant feed and sacks of manure stored in there, as well as a treasure trove of gardening tools. Seeing all these implements – the shears, various types of spades, and many other things – the crafter inside me couldn’t help but want to examine them. When a bibliophile sees a book, they have to at least read the cover and find out what it’s about. Similarly, I couldn’t pass by a toolbox without opening it up and rummaging around.

Right this second, however, I wasn’t concerned with the gardening implements but with the plan for the tinkered watering system, which I’d spread out on a soil-covered fold-out table.

“Is something wrong with it?” I asked.

“It just feels a little bit unnatural, laddo.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you install all of this equipment, it’s going to stick out like a bright red arse. I’ll walk in my garden and I won’t see the plants. I’ll just see your contraptions hanging everywhere.”

“There’s no getting around the fact that we’ll have to install the system. How could I make it, otherwise?”

Mrs. Greaves said, “Is there no way you could see if a compromise can’t be reached, laddo? For a poor, little old woman?”

She wasn’t poor and she certainly wasn’t little. She didn’t even seem that old, to be honest. But I liked her, and I also had pride in my craft. I didn’t want to leave a customer unhappy.

“Leave it with me.”

“Thank you, you’re an angel. Also, laddo, there’s a few tiny, little details we should talk about. See, the twist-vines need watering every two hours, while the greater colly-copse only needs water every week. And there’s the feeding schedule to consider. If your system mistakenly feeds…”

Mrs. Greaves gave me a list of notes and changes the like of which I hadn’t seen since I was an apprentice and Master Cooper used to mark my work like a school teacher who hated the school, his students, and education in general. Truth be told, it felt like not a single part of my plan was good enough.

That evening, five of us were seated around the dinner table. Janey and Cooper had their chairs close to each other, as usual, while Chris and Jester sat across from me. Paisley wasn’t here because she had gone to Woodbourne with her uncle for a quarterly meeting of the merchant’s guild. Phil, meanwhile, was taking the opportunity to have the manor to himself and was mostly likely soaking in a bubble-filled bath.

Dinner tonight was Aunt Sheila’s Three Cheese lasagna. Jester had found the recipe in his kitchen when we were renovating it, and this was his first attempt at recreating it. He’d made the lasagna at home in a baking tray and then brought it to the cottage. Cooper had heated it up, along with a side serving of garlic bread that oozed garlic butter and filled the kitchen with an aroma so delicious I felt my stomach tensing with anticipation.

The fact that Jester had supplied food, Cooper had heated it, and Janey had bought dessert from Rolls and Dough, meant that Chris and I would be on washing up duties. That was okay, though. The lasagna was so good I would have washed all the dishes in the King’s Head as payment for it.

“Any joy with Jace Porter, Jester?” Cooper asked.

Jester wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’m afraid he’s a stone I can’t draw blood from.”

“Ask Healer Brown for help. He loves drawing blood.”

Janey sighed. “Yes, evil Healer Brown, checking in on you.”

“I tried talking to Mr. Porter about me taking over his accounts the last time I saw him,” said Jester, “But I found myself getting flustered. I fear he thinks I’m a fool.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t, lad.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyway, speaking of fools,” said Cooper, with a smile, “Why’re you so quiet, Lewis? Lewis? Hello, Lewis, are you here?”

I snapped out of my daze. “Sorry. I was thinking about the garden plan.”

“What about it?”

I had already told Cooper about Mrs. Greaves' garden, and he was in favor of me taking on the job. Now, I explained to him what she’d told me. Her reservations about what I’d designed, and the copious notes she’d given me.

Cooper digested what I’d said at the same time as his stomach digested the plate full of lasagna he’d just fed it. Finally, he said, “You know what you’re guilty of?”

“I overthought it, I s’pose.”

“No. Crafter’s arrogance. You’ve made this nice, big plan to show off your skills, and you think you’ve matched it up with what Mrs. Greaves needs. But clearly you haven’t, lad. Did you even spend much time in the garden while you were planning all this out?”

“Well, she showed me round it.”

“Did you spend time there? A project this big, you need to visit the site and make sure you get a feel for it. There needs to be a balance here, Lewis, between a crafter’s knowledge and a customer’s wish.”

“I thought you said the customer is always wrong when it comes to crafting?”

“In the actual techniques, yes, but a customer can hardly be wrong when they tell you what they want or need, can they? Our job is to find the common ground where our skills and their needs can break bread.”

After dinner, when I’d washed the dishes, Jester had headed back home, Janey had gone to bed, and Chris was saying good night to the wolfhounds, Cooper and I were in the kitchen.

“Been meaning to talk to you,” he said.

“This sounds serious.”

Cooper turned around and opened a kitchen drawer, taking out two notebooks that I recognized. “Couldn’t help coming across these while I was looking through the project closet.”

“They were my first attempt at Spruce’s ordering system,” I said. “They didn’t quite work out.”

“These are notebooks with a mindreading effect, Lewis.”

“I know.”

“Have you used them?” Cooper asked.

“Well, a little. I wanted to find out what Jester wanted for his birthday. And then I used them in Healer Brown’s office.”

“Gods above, don’t use them in that man’s office! You don’t want to read Healer Brown’s thoughts, let me tell you. He’ll turn your soul black. In fact, lad, you should probably disenchant these. There’s such a thing as responsible artificery. Things we don’t like to dabble in. Intruding on people’s thoughts is one of ‘em.”

“I just wanted to make the ordering system for Spruce.”

“I’m not doubting your intentions, but the most well-intentioned necromancer might summon a flesh-eating zombie when all they wanted to do was resurrect their old, departed mother. What I’m trying to say is…I don’t know what I'm trying to say. I need to sleep. Just don’t play around with mindreading notebooks, Lewis. It’s not fair on others, and you might one day read something you don’t want to see.”

I nodded. “I’ll disenchant them tonight,” I said.

“Good. And keep up the good work on Mrs. Greaves’ garden. I looked over your plans when you left them lying around, and they were solid. Not your fault you couldn’t read her mind and know exactly what she wanted to the letter.” Then, he wagged his finger at me, “But don’t go thinking the notebooks would have helped!”

“No, Master Cooper. Good night.”

Over the next few days, I spent as much time as I could in Mrs. Greaves’ garden. At first I did so under her supervision, and staying mainly on a bench on the garden’s outskirts, out of reach of some of her more boisterous plants. I sat with my crafter’s notebook on my lap, pencil in hand, and tried to really get a feel for the place. To study its flora, its greens, reds, blues. To try and see where I might hide all the tinkered parts of my watering system within the mass of foliage and shrubbery.

When I felt a little more at ease being there, and even started to enjoy it, I explored deeper into the garden and took position on a different bench right beside one of the huge flytraps. At first, my heart thrummed at being so close to the massive plant, at seeing bushes flutter their leaves as though they were talking, at seeing vines slither across the ground. It made me want to get up and walk away.

Calm down, I told myself. Everything here is perfectly safe. I just need to remember what Jester told me.

I sat with my eyes open and watched. Then I sat with my eyes shut and listened. Remembering the breathing exercises Jester had shown me, I calmed myself down and cast away all kinds of thoughts, allowing myself to sit in the garden and just…be.

And that was when it happened.

I couldn’t pinpoint the very second. Only that one moment I closed my eyes and the next I opened them, and I felt this overwhelming sense of peace. It was like I was soaking in a perfectly warmed bath with one of Janey’s alchemic relaxation salt mixtures in it, except I was perfectly dry. Sitting there on the bench, surrounded on all sides by nature, I felt the calmest I had ever felt in my life. Looking down, I saw that vines had crept up my legs and onto my lap. But they weren’t squeezing me; it seemed like they were just content to stay there and keep me company.

I watched the garden with new eyes now, seeing it not as just a hobby of Mrs. Greaves’, but as a world in itself. A complex system of leafy lifeforms, one that shouldn’t be spoiled by the intrusion of metal and machinery. With my pencil in hand, I hurriedly sketched out the garden. I had never been much of an artist, but my diagram was serviceable. Then, with the garden set to paper, I began to think about where I could place things. How I could ensure the garden was cared for while Mrs. Greaves was gone, without spoiling its beauty?

It was then that I saw something else, too. Something that excited me so much that I almost leaped out of my seat. Instead, with all the decorum I could muster, I rose from the bench and headed to the shed, where I found Mrs. Greaves repotting a bulb of some kind into a bigger ceramic container packed with soil.

“Mrs. Greaves,” I began.

She smiled at me. “Enjoying my garden?”

“It’s…” I began, struggling for the right words to convey how much I appreciated it.

“Say no more. I understand completely.”

“I wanted to ask you something,” I said. “But it’s not about the watering system. You know the plants over there, near the big flytrap? The ones that look droopy - their stalks I mean - but have those huge petals?”

“The rosewillows.”

“I watched them for a while, and I noticed they kept changing color. When they turned blue, one of the flowers nearby sort of…leaned toward them and tipped rainwater in their direction.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Greaves. “Blue means they need water. Red means a problem with their roots. And if the petals ever flash brown, you better hurry.”

“I noticed something else. When one of the rosewillows changed color, another one across the garden did the same. But it seems like different rosewillows are sort of, I don’t know, twinned with another.”

She nodded. “Rosewillow bulbs are always planted in pairs, and then separated when they reach maturity. After that, their colors are always linked.”

“Why do they match colors like that?”

Mrs. Greaves looked like she was enjoying having someone take an interest in her plants.

“In their natural environment, rosewillows co-exist with vetch-vines, which for some reason tend to their needs as best they can. It’s been studied, but we can’t really work out why this should be. However, when a rosewillow changes color and forces a color change in its twin, we believe it just serves as a way of alerting the vine system. Like saying to it, ‘Hey, my twin over there needs water, since it hasn’t rained in a while.’ It doesn’t have much of a purpose here in the garden, because I can’t keep any vetch-vines here. They tend to strangle any flora except rosewillows.”

“And how far does it go?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“When one rosewillow changes blue and says it needs water, how close does its twin have to be so that it changes color, too?”

“They can be miles away, Lewis.”

I felt my heart race. “Miles?”

“Certainly.”

“Mrs. Greaves,” I said, knowing my voice sounded overeager but being unable to control myself, “Is there any chance at all I can take some samples from the rosewillows? Some petals, perhaps? And cuttings? Maybe a piece of root?”

“Be my guest. Actually, no, don’t be my guest. I’ll get the samples for you. Just tell me what you need.”

Not long after that afternoon in the garden, a few things happened. Firstly, I redesigned my plans for the tinkered watering and feeding system, ensuring that I kept a balance between the garden’s aesthetics and what the system actually needed to do. I hid whatever contraptions could be hidden, and I found ways to blend the others in so that they weren’t the first things you noticed when you looked at the garden.

Mrs. Greaves gave it her approval, and after showing it to Master Cooper and getting a few notes from a technical standpoint, I was ready to begin making it.

I placed an order for materials straight away. Rather than visit our suppliers myself, which I liked to do where possible because it made for a better relationship, I went to the post office and gave Connor Perry a few letters to send out.

It was frustrating, waiting for the materials to arrive, but I soon had a way to pass the time when a parcel arrived for me at the craftstead. It was a brown paper parcel the size of a stack of books, wrapped with twine and it sporting two soiled thumbprints on it.

Opening it up, I was treated to a plethora of vials and jars, each containing various parts of a rosewillow plant. Seeing them, my pulse began to dance to a faster tune.

With my alchemy tools ready and my rosewillow ingredients waiting to be used, I began conducting an orchestra right there in the workshop. One made up of alembics and boiling pots, of rosewillow root ground into dust and rosewillow petals concentrated into their essence. I boiled, mixed, stirred, refined. The hours flew by in an alchemic daze, the clock hands deceiving me by giving on reading one minute and then trying to convince me that one, two, or even three hours had gone in a blink.

This was alchemy at a higher level than I had done before. A door that wouldn’t even have been open to me a month or two previously, before I learned the Intermediate Alchemy skill tree that had given me the key. Now that door was unlocked, and I walked through it and grabbed what I needed.

But maybe that was unfair. I hadn’t just grabbed something; I had worked my arse off there in the workshop, not just today but in all the hours I’d spent leveling up, putting all my alchemy talents to use until they resulted in the creation of something that was, to me, truly special.

Three solid knocks drew my attention to the workshop door, where Janey was now standing.

“Lewis, I was wondering if you’d like…” she began, before pausing as she saw what was on the workbench in front of me. “This is what I like to see! What do have we here?”

I was bleary eyed, weary limbed, but even through this fugue I still had energy to show off my work. Who doesn’t like being a show-off now and again? I picked up the vial resting on the worktop and held it up for her to see. Inside it there was a gray substance with the consistency of paste. It had a faint plant-like odor.

“Rosewillow essence,” I told her. “Made from twinned rosewillows. When one of them changes color-”

“So does its twin. Yes, I’ve worked with them once or twice, but they’re hard to get hold of. What’s it for?”

“Spruce Wilkinson’s ordering system. I refined the roots and petals of the rosewillows so I could strip out their telepathic effect. I know it’s not actual telepathy, but that’s the nearest word I can think of for it. Anyway, I used the part where one rosewillow transmits its color to its twin, even if it’s miles away. I refined it to its essence, to the thing that does the transmitting. Then I made it into a thick salve.”

“Okay, and then?”

I grabbed the two stone tablets that I had set on the workbench. After spreading some of the rosewillow paste onto both of them, I used a putty knife to make sure their surfaces were evenly coated gray. Then, I handed one tablet to Janey.

“Watch this,” I told her.

Using my index finger, I made a shape in the paste that covered my tablet. It was the shape of alchemy, or at least the glyph that the alchemist’s guild used on its signage. I thought Janey might appreciate it.

Staring at her own tablet, Janey’s eyes sparkled. “Excellent, Lewis! Truly excellent. But this will require Spruce to have several tablets in this kitchen, will it not? Each covered in paste made from separate twin rosewillows.”

I shook my head. “He’ll just have a large wooden board – it doesn’t have to be a tablet, that was just my artistic flair – in his kitchen. All he has to do is smear some paste from each differently labeled vial on a different part of the board, and make sure to label each smear with the customer’s name. It means he’ll need to keep a dozen or so vials of paste in his cafe, but they take up less room than a box of jam or a crate of doughnuts. It’s hardly an imposition. Anyway, right now, this is the nearest I can get to solving his problem. And for people who have trouble writing, I made a few self-writing pens that can make shapes in the paste at their command.”

“I’m sure Mr. Wilkinson will be more than happy.”

“Hope so,” I said. “Each vial should last a while. The paste smooths itself over after a certain amount of time so that you can write on it again.”

“You should show Jack. He’ll love this.”

“Right now, I honestly don’t care if he hates every part of it,” I said. “The job’s finally done, and it feels like I just shifted a very heavy monkey off my back.”

The bell outside the workshop rang. I headed to the crest of the hill and looked down, where I saw a man waving at me. Sending the cart to him, it wasn’t long before it returned bearing the stacks of sheet metal and other materials that I’d ordered.

I crafted and assembled all the different parts for the watering system right there in the workshop yard. Piece by painstaking piece, cog by confusing cog, I put each one together. Using tinkered conditional gears, I was able to make every watering and feeding machine work at different intervals as required, finalizing each one by sticking a label on them with their recipient plant’s name written in black.

Testing each completed tinkered machine in the yard, I ran into more than my share of problems. Some of them refused to work at all, others dispensed plant food instead of water, or released the food in the wrong quantities and at the wrong times.

A week passed with my testing and tinkering, testing and tinkering. At first, Simon, Potter, and Stacey would stop and watch me work, enjoying watching me get angrier and angrier when my system refused to do what it was supposed to. Soon, Simon and Potter even began to heckle me, playing a sport of trying to get me even more frustrated.

“That’s it, Lewis,” Simon said when water gushed out of one of the machines and soaked me through. “Nothing like a cold shower.”

Complaining to Cooper that the builders were wasting time by goading me wouldn’t have helped. Cooper would just have joined in with them. Besides, I knew that would be a show of bad sport. If I wasn’t so stressed at getting this damned thing to work, I’d have found it funny myself.

Refusing to show myself as a stick in the mud or let them distract me, I used my Tinkerer’s Focus ability, and with my thoughts narrowed and my concentration bolstered, I worked on the system until I had stamped out every problem.

And then, as night fell upon the craftstead, I walked across the yard and into the main house, and finally summoned the strength to make it to my bedroom, where my bed waited. Slumping onto it, I had just enough awareness to realize that someone had washed the sheets so that they felt comfortable and fresh. Their floral scent filled my bedroom, and it was a scent that I recognized well; that of rosewillow.

“Thanks, Janey,” I had enough energy to shout out into the room, hoping my words carried across the hallway and to her and Jack’s room. And then, I closed my eyes and sank into sleep.

Installing the tinkered system in Mrs. Greaves’s garden was something of a novelty for me, in that Master Cooper came to help. Mrs. Greaves was due to travel to her sister’s house in three days, and we needed to install the whole thing and test it once more before she left.

After a few hours of work that morning, I took a moment to rest. Watching Cooper toiling nearby, stretching up on his tiptoes to screw a tinker box to a post next to a tree, I felt myself filled with affection for the old man.

“We don’t do this enough,” I said.

“Do what?” he grunted, without turning around.

“Work on stuff together.”

“You helped me with the batch of glow stones last week, didn’t you?”

“That was two months ago,” I said. “And usually when I help you, it means we both work on the same thing but at separate times. It’s nice, having a project to focus on together.”

Cooper finished screwing in the box and turned around. He looked faintly ridiculous, standing there wearing a string vest that might once have been white, and with his trousers tucked into his boots. Even at his age, though, he was a strong man. He might have boasted a little bit of a gut, but he’d also retained muscles in his arms and shoulders earned from a lifetime of hard work.

“It is nice,” he agreed. “Maybe we ought to have a think about a project. Something not for a customer. Something just for us, as artificers. Me and you.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

We managed to install and test the system before Mrs. Greaves left for her sister’s house, though not without problems. When we were almost done one of the vine plants had slithered across the garden and, without any warning at all, snatched up all our tools. It led us on a chase around the garden – or at least it led me on a chase, with Cooper directing me – and I was almost out of both breath and patience before Mrs. Greaves shouted at the vines, and they relented.

Finally, though, we were done. Everything was installed and tested, and I was certain it would all work as it should. We’d hidden whatever we could, and tried to make the rest of the system as unobtrusive as possible. I was proud of our work.

“I’ll stop by every so often while you’re gone,” I told her. “You know. Check up on everything.”

“Feel free to just sit for a while when you do,” said Mrs. Greaves, reading my real intentions. The fact was that the tinkered watering system was reliable and it had a few smaller failsafes in place, at Cooper’s insistence. This was something I couldn’t have done if I’d worked alone, so I was thankful that he’d offered to help.

“Thanks, Mrs. Greaves.”

“Call me Hattie, please, Lewis. And I should be thanking you.”

“You can thank us with your gold and your future custom,” said Cooper, with a bow.

“Perhaps I can do a little more than that for our…budding…alchemist,” said Mrs. Greaves. Then, looking at me, she said, “Feel free to stop by the garden for foraging ingredients whenever you like. I’ll leave a list of what you can and can’t pick.”

“Now,” said Master Cooper, “How about we celebrate a job well done with some grub? Come to the Sunny Café, Hattie, and I’ll treat you. Lewis can pay his own way, though.”

“Is that right?” I said.

“Oh, fine, I’ll treat you, too. Now, where’s my coat?”

“I really don’t think…” began Hattie, “No, I’m afraid I can’t spare the time. I need to water my plants.”

Cooper looked around the garden, confused. “You do realize what we just installed for you, don’t you?”

I knew what was going on. Hattie never ate in the Sunny Café, the King’s Head, or Rolls and Dough. She rarely ever stepped foot on Coiner’s Way unless she had to. For such an introverted person, even having Cooper and I here was probably tiring enough in itself.

“If you don’t want to have lunch with us today, we can always do it when you get back from your sister’s house,” I said. “Although, I actually wanted to give you something.”

“Oh?”

I opened my crafter’s satchel and took out a stone tablet and a vial of rosewillow paste. As Cooper and Hattie watched, I popped the vial and used my putty knife to spread a layer of gray paste over the surface.

“If you write on this tablet, Spruce Wilkinson at the Sunny Café will get your order and he’ll have one of his delivery boys or girls bring it over.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “It’s a new ordering system he’s trialing for people who don’t want to or can’t go to the café.”

“It’s very clever,” said Hattie.

“The artificer who made it is a genius,” I agreed.

Forty-five minutes later, the three of us sat together on a bench in the garden, eating sandwiches recently delivered to the garden gates by Jackson James, one of the kids who I strongly suspected was involved in the nighttime pranks that were plaguing Sunhampton. He brought the food to the garden gates and wouldn’t take a step closer. I paid him, and Hattie, Cooper and I enjoyed our food there in the middle of the peaceful greenery. Only once did a vine try stealing my sandwich.

“You know, Hattie,” I said, “I think this might be one of my favorite projects ever. Thank you for choosing Cooper and Cooper for your artificeric needs.”

Cooper laughed at this, and then the three of us enjoyed our easy silence.

It was only when I was back at home, in my bedroom with the curtains drawn and a lamp lit, that I checked my token text. I had been holding off over the last week as I planned the watering system, built it, and installed it, no doubt leveling up every step of the way. I wanted to savor learning about my upgrades, to forestall the pleasure of actually reading it, as though it was the last chapter of a greatly enjoyable book.

I climbed into bed and got half under the covers. Then, suitably warm and snug, I read my token text.

Tinker leveled from 8 to 14 [Simple Tinkering]

Mend leveled from 1 to 4 [Simple Tinkering]

Tinker Invent leveled from 5 to 7 [Simple Tinkering]

Tinkerer’s Focus leveled from 1 to 6 [Simple Tinkering]

Simple Tinkering skill tree leveled to 3!

Simple Tinkering skill tree leveled to 4!

On my wrist, the Simple Tinkering token set in my token bracelet looked much different from before, the etching of tinkerer’s cogs on it taking on greater complexity. The glow of progress warmed me from the inside, in my artificer’s core which housed my passion for my discipline and my determination to always get better at it.

The feeling of advancement made me want to get out of bed and start crafting right then and there. Only one part of my brain wanted that, though. The rest of it was saying ‘You must be joking.’ Nothing could have moved me from my bed that night. Now that the ordering system was finished, Hattie’s garden was done, and I’d read my token text, I had well and truly pulled the cork out from the bottle of sleep.

Putting silly notions of working to one side, a nice kind of tiredness settled over me. I burrowed deeper under my covers and spread out my arms and legs, imagining all my stresses and strains seeping out from me like steam from a hot bath. I fell asleep almost immediately, dreaming of nothing but the floral scent and vivid greens of a peaceful woodland garden.

Chapter 19

A crafter’s life is similar to that of a moth’s. It might seem strange to say that, but we’re always finding ourselves drawn from one light source to another. A lamp here, candle there. A fireplace, glow stone, a string of artificed Yulthor lights. The lights that capture our attention are those of projects. Of things to make, stuff to tinker, objects to artifice. Give a crafter three different projects to work on at once, and they’d split themselves into three people if it were possible.

It was true that I’d let myself get a little diverted lately, what with the market and Hattie’s garden, but in doing so I had actually managed to finish Spruce’s ordering system. This meant that when I finally turned my attention back to the Fiends’ new wagon and set changing device, my mind felt much more focused than it had for a while.

With the materials I’d ordered from Jim-Joe Eckersley and other suppliers ready, and the in-depth wagon-making book Jester had given me waiting to lead me along the way, I was ready to get to it. Only, I couldn’t craft the wagon in the workshop, since it was simply too big.

“I know a man who made a wagon in his workshop once,” Cooper told me.

“Did he lose his arm, by chance?” I said, expecting one of Cooper’s classic warning stories where the poor main character always lost an appendage.

“He did, as it happens. But not for another twenty years. Lost it trying to fix the gear system on a drawbridge.”

I sighed. “Right.”

“This fella, he put the wagon together part by part, right there in his workshop. Seemed clever enough, until he realized that wagons are usually bigger than doors. Had to smash a hole in his wall big enough to get the thing out.”

I wasn’t vain enough to think I would never make a mistake. What I hoped, however, was that I could at least make mistakes that had a little style. A dollop of sophistication. Not novice errors that got told around campfires when crafters went for a trip into the woods. I was determined that no story in Easterly would ever begin with something like, ‘I knew this artificer once, up in Sunhampton, and he did the most ridiculous thing…’

Making the wagon itself was straightforward now I had the book to guide me. The book listed a part, and I used my Craft ability to make the part. Easy as that. After using Upgrade to improve on the part’s base form, I moved onto the next one. When the book told me that certain parts now needed to be assembled, I assembled them. This was how a wagon was built, part by part, timber by timber, in the same way that Simon and Potter were building the alchemy workshop brick by brick. The way I saw it, everything in life was done piece by piece. What was a marathon if not thousands of footsteps, one after the other? What was a novel if it wasn’t just a bunch of words placed in succession? Set just one foot or one word down, and you would have made progress, and nobody could tell you otherwise. Don’t think too far ahead, only on what you need to do at that very moment. That was the key. That was how I tackled my biggest crafting projects.

When the wagon was almost done, I became aware of a commotion across the yard. Simon, Potter, and Stacey were hollering for Cooper and Janey, who rushed out of the craftstead like it was on fire.

“What’s all this fuss?” said Cooper.

“It’s done, Mr. Cooper, Mrs. Morgan. Finished.”

Indeed it was. There, in the yard, was a newly-completed, brick-built alchemy workshop with arched windows to let in light from all directions, a sloped, tiled roof, and a chimney specially designed to extract noxious fumes. Inside, I had no doubt there would be all kinds of specifications that Janey had made.

Seeing that proud building and Janey’s beaming reaction to it, I understood why Cooper had paid Stacey Logan and her team to do the job. They built things the slow way, using their abilities to make quick work of only the tedious tasks, but taking great care with the others. The sweetness was in the taste, as Mrs. Grant was fond of saying. It was clear what a good job they’d done.

Simon held out a trowel with cement on it in one hand, and a brick in the other. “Would you like to place the final brick, Mrs. Morgan?” he said, gesturing at the wall that surrounded the alchemy workshop.

“I’d be delighted. Thank you.”

“You do that, and then I’ll take you through everything we’ve done,” said Stacey. “Simon, Potter, you lads go to the King’s Head.”

“We don’t finish for another three hours, boss.”

“I’m ordering you to go to the King’s Head on work’s time, and be paid for it. Go on. I’ll be down soon.”

That afternoon was one of the few times in my life when I ever saw alchemy master Janey Morgan lose her poise. Letting Stacey take her on a tour of her new workshop, she smiled here, exclaimed at something there, pointed at this and that. I didn’t think it was all the little features that they’d installed for her, nor the craftsmanship of the building that was making her so happy. It was its permanence, I reckoned. The fact that this was a brick building with the deeds in her name, and that it was situated here on the craftstead, which had sat above Sunhampton for generations. After decades of renting shops here and there, never letting her roots spread, this new workshop must have meant a lot to her.

“Nothing better, is there?” said Cooper, standing next to me.

“It’s nice to finish a project,” I agreed.

“No, lad, not that. I mean look at how happy she is. That smile. Put it next to the sun and it’d be hard to tell which one brightens the sky more.”

When the base wagon was finished, I installed a bunch of tinkered additions inside according to Toby’s requests. This was much easier than when I had worked on Hattie’s garden system. Not only was I better at tinkering now, but Toby and the Fiends wouldn’t care about my tinkered systems blending in or not. All they wanted was for them to work.

It took six and a half hours, but by the time I was done, the wagon was fitted out with rotating costume racks, self-cleaning make-up counters, and quick-change booths that dressed an actor in seconds. The wagon itself was, of course, artificed, and Toby hadn’t spared any expense in this. This let me turn the far end of it into a spacious relaxation area, with a comfortable ‘U’ shaped couch that the troupe could lounge on between scenes or performances.

One thing that Toby hadn’t wanted to pay for, though, was for the wagon to be self-moving. Such artificery, especially on a vehicle this big, required constant maintenance as the miles took their toll on the miodes and wore them down. Besides that, Toby was fond of the troupe’s horses – especially two named Gulliver and Argyle – and wanted them to pull the wagon.

This meant I had to rent two horses from Farmer Heathcliffe, who also ran a small livery at the edge of his farm outside of town. After leading the mares – Jennifer and Clarice - to the craftstead and attaching them properly to the wagon, I hopped up onto the driver’s seat.

“Woah!” shouted Cooper, leaving the workshop in a hurry. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Taking the wagon to the Fiends.”

“Lewis, you’ll crash this thing into a wall before you’ve left the craftstead. I know an artificer who lost his-”

“I learned how to drive wagons from Sid,” I told him. “I can handle this.”

“Sid? Fella who worked for your stepfather?”

I nodded. “I won’t be long.”

When I arrived at the Fiends’ camp with their new wagon, the troupe was hard at work preparing for their play. Yulthor was swimming towards them fast with its jaws wide open, and the camp buzzed with a nervous energy that I associated with a performance looming near. Cobby was practicing his lines with Mel, while Toby was fussing over Ophelia, perhaps giving her notes but just as likely showering her with compliments to boost her spirits. That’s what he used to do with my mother. Well, most of the time.

When I went over to say hello, Toby told me that he didn’t have time for a tour of the wagon right now. I was a little disappointed; no crafter worth their oil doesn’t look forward to showing off their work to a happy customer. Being denied that is like someone baking you a birthday cake and then throwing it in the trash.

“Sorry, Lewis, my boy, but you know how it is,” said Toby.

“I do.”

“And about the set changing device…”

“I’ll have it ready soon. I promise.”

After a quick chat with Ophelia – who asked me to read lines with her for a while – I was heading out of the camp, when Big Henry approached me. He was dressed in a woodcutter’s costume. This might have been for the play, but could quite easily just be his choice for the day. Henry had a very particular idea of fashion, and never worried about whether anyone else liked it or not. His only problem was that he was so tall he needed to get all his things specially tailored.

“Lewis, we’re doing Secret Yulthor,” he said, displaying a bowler hat that had lots of slips of paper inside.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I replied.

“Why not? Your pals already agreed.”

“Paisley and the others?”

“Her, Chris, Jester, Phil. Even Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Morgan.”

“Alright,” I said. “I guess I better join in.”

Although I was always reluctant with joining a Secret Yulthor group since there was a chance you might have to buy a gift for someone you didn’t know well enough, this might actually have been a good thing. The fact that we would do Secret Yulthor meant I would only have to buy a present for the person I was assigned, rather than bursting a vein in my temple trying to find a nice gift for everyone. As much as I loved giving gifts, the whole process was sometimes an ordeal. It’d be nice to only worry about whether one person liked my present or not, rather than a dozen people.

Henry shoved the hat in my direction. He put his hand in it and mixed up the slips of paper. “You’re the last to agree, but you can be the first to draw.”

I wondered who would be the best person to get. Toby was easy to buy for; he’d be happy with an expensive bottle of brandy and a compliment about his hair. Similarly, I could easily figure out something for Chris since we lived in the same house. A new shirt, maybe. I supposed that if I had to rank everyone, Ophelia would be the hardest. I didn’t know her very well, and for some reason, even the idea of having to choose a gift for her filled me with a strange kind of anxiety.

I put my hand into the hat, pulled out a slip of paper and read it.

“Don’t tell anyone who it is!” said Henry. “Tell me, of course. Someone needs to keep track of who’s got who. But nobody else! Well, come on. Who did you get?”

I read the name on the paper again. “Ophelia,” I said.

As time drew closer toward Yulthor’s icy embrace, I felt like someone had drilled a needle-thin hole in my hourglass and then were laughing as the sand poured out. Morning, noon, and night I worked on the set changing device for the Fiends, each hour bringing me nearer to finishing the project, yet also making the deadline feel even closer.

This was my most challenging tinkering project yet, just short of being too challenging, in fact. James Trafford would have described it as a perfect project for leveling on, but right now all I was concerned about was getting it finished.

The problem was the moving parts. Lots and lots of moving parts. I had to create lots of tinkerer gears, big and small, and then fit them together in a system more sophisticated than the insides of a grandfather clock. Added to this, there was also a hefty amount of artificery involved, since the huge, painted sets needed to be stored somewhere when not in use.

Then there were all the little flourishes that Toby had requested. He wanted some sets to have a sunset effect, where the audience could watch the sun fall to sleep behind the actors. There were dozens of winch systems that I needed to tinker. Ropes and pulleys that were required to move a bush here, open a door there. This kind of system would have been a challenge to install in a permanent, physical theater building, yet I had to find tinkered and artificeric ways that would allow the Fiends to travel around Easterly with the device stored in the back of a wagon.

Three days before the Yulthor play, I was working on an intricate puzzle of gears, when I suddenly got a sinking feeling. It was like being kicked in the stomach and having the wind sucked out of me, except that the sensation was deeper, in my artificer’s core.

I set my tools on the workbench and slumped onto a stool, feeling weary. After a calming breath or two, I tapped my token bracelet, only to find what I had expected: I had worked so hard without break that I had completely drained my crafting stamina.

Just then, there was a knock on the workshop door. A strangely theatrical knock, the acoustic pattern of which I remembered from years ago, when that same sound would repeat on the door of the wagon that my mother and I shared.

My sinking feeling got worse.

The knocks sounded again. Could I just ignore them?

I knew that I couldn’t. Toby hadn’t walked all the way from his camp and to the craftstead just to be turned away.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened swiftly and with a flourish, and then Toby filled the doorframe, hands on his hips, chin pointed up, chest full of thespian air. Every finger on his right hand was covered in gold. Fake gold, I knew, but it would have fooled a stranger who gave it a passing glance.

“Lewis, my dear boy, how splendid it is to see you!” he said, in full theatrical voice.

“What is it, Toby?”

“I come with a question, which you may chance to answer,” he said.

“Toby, I’m so tired, I really can’t deal with this today.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, his tone changing, dropping a little in energy. “I just wanted to know how to set changing device is coming along.”

“It’s…getting there.”

“The play is almost here, Lewis.”

“I know. I’ll get it ready.”

“Do you think you could-”

“I’ll tell you as soon as it's ready,” I said, fighting with all my will to keep my tone even. “You’ll be the first person in the whole of Easterly to know. But for now, please, please, just let me work.”

“Seems you have a little of Lisabeth’s fire, my boy,” said Toby.

When he was gone, I added another bad feeling to my collection for the day – guilt. I knew that Toby had only come to check up on the project, as any customer would. And having traveled with the Fiends for so long, I was fully aware of how tempers flared and nerves jittered in the lead up to a show. Toby hadn’t meant anything by it, and I had been mean to him. I just hoped that it hadn’t come across that strongly. I doubted it would have. After all, Old Bear, Saucy Toby, Red-Faced Tobias, well, he wasn’t always the most perceptive of other people’s feelings. For the leader of a theater troupe whose job involved coaxing emotions from his stars, he was actually rather poor at reading them in real life.

The surest way to solve this whole thing was to get the project finished. But there was the matter of my crafting stamina to worry about. I could barely do any work at all without it.

I found myself glancing at the artificed bookshelf across the workshop, where a copy of 1001 Recipes was on display. I knew that it would contain a recipe for a crafting stamina potion, but those things were risky. Used too often to temporarily boost stamina, they could actually have a lasting negative impact and, in the long term, could permanently drain a person’s crafting stamina. Yet without it, how could I finish the project on time?

More knocks sounded on the workshop door, and my sinking feeling grew stronger. Then, a small crowd of people entered. People who, despite how terrible I was feeling, still managed to coax a small smile from me.

“Get your coat, Lewis,” said Paisley.

The whole gang was there. Paisley, Phil, Jester, Chris. All my friends dressed up ready for an outing.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“You need a break. That’s what’s going on.”

“But I need to-”

“You need to listen,” said Paisley, her voice stern. “You’ve been working too hard. You need a break.”

“I can’t.”

“We don’t want to hear your excuses. Get your coat, fix your smile, and leave this bloody workshop for a bit.”

I had expected that we’d be going to the King’s Head or maybe the Sunny Café, which I no longer felt the need to avoid after finishing Spruce Wilksinson’s project. But instead, we paid for seats on a traveler wagon and headed out of Sunhampton.

Our journey took us to a little fort near Stow. There, I was delighted to discover that Chris had bought us all tickets to the jousting tournament. I’d completely forgotten that it was happening. But even as we entered the fort and took our seats, my feelings about my project lingered.

Soon, though, Paisley had treated us all to some ale and doughnuts, and we spent the afternoon watching men and women charging around on horses, crashing their lances into each other. With every cheer of the crowd, every defeat, every thrilling victory, I felt my tension begin to ebb just a little, splintering like the emblemed wooden shields down in the arena.

I wouldn’t say I was the best of company, and I certainly wasn’t in fine form. Instead, I sank into my seat and just enjoyed watching the tourney and listening to my friends as they bantered, joked, and talked with each other. The day wound on in comfortable happiness, and by the time we got on the traveler cart headed back to Sunhampton, I felt refreshed.

Some of my crafting stamina had returned by the next day, and I was ready to get back to work. I wasn’t alone, though. This time, Master Cooper helped me, taking his space on the other side of my workbench, humming to himself as he assembled cogs and gears.

Having Master Cooper there, even though he spent much of the afternoon lost in his usual grumbles, made the work seem lighter. I no longer had the feeling that time was escaping me, but instead that I was using it well.

Gradually, piece by piece, the device came together, until finally, it was finished. We tested it once, then again, rotating through the different sets, making sure the little flourishes that Toby had requested worked as they should. There was the village backdrop where real smoke drifted from the chimneys, the heart of a section of woodland where clockwork owls hooted and leaves swayed in the whisper of a breeze. A turn of a tinkered handle moved tinkered cogs, and the set changing device went through its vistas just as it should.

As the day dimmed and evening settled over the craftstead, we knew it was done. Standing in the yard and staring at the device, at this sum of our joint efforts, Cooper settled his arm around my shoulder.

“Can’t beat it, can you?”

“Nothing like a finished project,” I agreed.

“It’s not the finishing that’s the good thing,” said Cooper. “It’s the crafting itself. Always take joy in the process, Lewis. That’s where a crafter’s happiness lies.”

I wished I could have agreed with him, but I didn’t. Not completely, at least. Oh, I loved the work sure enough, and nothing made time fly by than a nice spot of crafting. But there was another part to the whole thing that I cherished.

That came when I went to my room after dinner, sat on my bed, and tapped my token bracelet, allowing reams of beautiful text to unfurl in the air around me.

I watched this dance of light, little golden letters that told me all the abilities I had leveled up. Level after level, ability after ability in my Simple Tinkering and Simple Craft and Forge skill trees.

Finally, they culminated in text that made all my recent efforts seem worth it.

Simple Craft and Forge skill tree leveled up to intermediate!

New level: Intermediate Craft and Forge Level 1

Simple Tinkering skill tree leveled up to intermediate!

New level: Intermediate Tinkering Level 1

Chapter 20

The Fiends had done the almost impossible and successfully negotiated with Mr. Leabrook for the use of the market square. I didn’t know how they’d managed it; the man was invulnerable to bribery, compliments, charm, and friendliness in general. His whole existence hinged on the fact that he must always be in control of the market square, and if that meant having so many rules that people didn’t want to use it, then so be it. But, nevertheless, he had agreed, so I supposed Toby’s charm must have worked.

The day before the play, Cobby and Mel spent time moving planks, hammering nails and turning screws, and before sunset they had built the Fiends’ temporary stage on the east side of the market square.

This physical representation seemed to make the play real in folks’ eyes, and Connor Perry at the post office sold all the tickets the Fiends had left there. Anticipation simmered like milk in a pan, boiling over once or twice. Sunhampton wasn’t used to outdoor theater. In fact, as vain as it sounded, a troupe like the Fiends wouldn’t have visited if I hadn’t been here. It was just too small a place to be worth it.

Finally, the night arrived. It was a cold evening, and a light dusting of snow was falling. The Sunhampton residents bundled in their coats and scarves didn’t feel even a single shiver; they were sitting in chairs under a canopy, and placed here and there were wooden poles with artificed glow stones attached, giving off warmth that felt like a kiss from the sun even in the dark of the night. With fairy lights glowing and the snowflakes falling all around, there was no cozier scene in the whole of Easterly.

All around the outskirts of the market, outside the canopy, were traders with pop-up stalls. Music of the aromatic kind played in the air even as the Sunhampton brass band performed on stage. Notes of hot chocolate, of warm, sugared pastry, of cinnamon, five spice, and nutmeg. Kids, being urged by their parents, scurried over to their seats carrying candy apples or cinnamon twists, then settled in next to their mother, father, or grandparents and watched the stage with anticipation.

I spectated from a different angle, one where I heard a different kind of anticipation going on around me. There I was, backstage again for the first time in years. Only this time I wasn’t coaching my mother, soothing her nerves and running through lines. I was waiting with my artificed tools, ready to leap into the fray if my set changing device decided it was a good time to act up.

“Places, everyone, places,” said Toby. “Mel, why aren’t you ready? Bloody hell, we don’t have a second to spare!”

The Fiends hadn’t changed. Not a bit. It had always been like this; weeks of preparation leading to a few final chaotic minutes where they felt rushed, under prepared, and had the feeling that this play would spell doom for their acting reputation. But it never did, and it wouldn’t tonight, either.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed Toby, strolling onto the stage. “Tonight you will hear a tale of courage, a tale of woe, a tale that…”

The first act went brilliantly, as did the second. People laughed when they should have laughed, gasped when they should have gasped. Big Henry’s villain inspired dread, Cobby’s comic relief character hit the spot brilliantly.

But then, a new character emerged. He only had a single line. Striding across the stage, he delivered a letter to Toby’s hero and told him, “The lady awaits your response, my liege.”

Watching from backstage, I couldn’t believe it. Though, when my gaze found Paisley sitting in the audience, there wasn’t a hint of the same disbelief on her face.

Chris never told me he’d gotten a part with the Fiends, I thought. Paisley must have already known, judging by her expression as she sat in the audience next to Jace and Phil, but I guessed that wasn’t too surprising. Maybe Chris had been too nervous to tell anyone but his girlfriend. Still, I was happy for him. I hadn’t known he wanted to act, but here he was, acting. Though he had only a single line in this play, he’d delivered it perfectly.

And so, accompanied by scenes filled with laughs, jeers, groans of anticipation, and yells of joy, the actors led the audience through the adventure and towards the end of act three.

Toby, his heroic costume unmarked despite dispatching a full play’s worth of foes using his wooden sword, declared to his sidekick, “To the castle, Jonta! We must confront the Earl once and for all!”

At this point, the backdrop was supposed to change. The village should have fallen away, replaced by the set of a huge, extravagant dining hall with the Earl, played by Big Henry, awaiting them for the final confrontation. There were even hidden, aromatic, alchemic pods that should have sent out the smell of roasted chicken and a roaring fire.

But nothing happened.

If it weren’t kept snug in place by a loving embrace of fluid and tissue, my heart would have dislodged and stuck in my throat. From the stage, Toby gave a glance in my direction. I shrugged, then gestured at my toolbelt, hoping this conveyed the message that I would fix it.

“Well,” Toby announced, “Now that I think about it, let’s not be too hasty, Jonta. If we’re going to confront the Earl, we must prepare. Now, I’ll tell you what we need, and you must pack it in my satchel. When you have done so, you must reply, ‘Done.’ Do you understand?”

Cobby didn’t shift from his Jonta character for even a second. “Yes, Maximus Splendor.”

“Okay, then. Let me see. I’ll need my set of lock picks.”

“Yes, Maximus.”

“Jonta…what did I tell you that you must say?”

“Sorry. Done!”

“And my collection of daggers…”

“Done.”

On and on the list went, but the audience, incredibly, didn’t lose even a hint of interest. It was often said about an actor that they were so good you could listen to them recite a shopping list. Toby was living proof of that.

While he delivered his list to poor, suffering Jonta, I got to work with my tools. My Tinkering and my Craft and Forge skill trees were ranked intermediate now. On my Tinkering skill tree was the Mend ability, and on Craft and Forge was Repair. Using both of them, I quickly managed to get the set changing device functional again.

I headed to the edge of the back of the stage and waited until Toby glanced my way. I gave him a thumbs up.

“I think that should be enough preparation, Jonta,” said Toby. “Now, let’s get to that damned Earl’s manor.”

The crowd cheered, delighted that their hero wasn’t just heroic but also organized. People in Sunhampton loved practicality above all else, and a hero who made a list of necessary items before going to confront the enemy won their hearts easily. This might have been improvisation, but it elevated the play to at least a nine out of ten for the folks of our little town.

Soon, the story was over. Maximus Splendor was now an earl, and Jonta was no longer a loyal peasant sidekick but a land owner himself. With this resolved, the actors took their bows and absorbed the applause and the compliments from the audience that they’d earned.

Finally, when this was done, Toby took to the center of the stage and stood there alone.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Sunhampton,” he said, not in his acting voice but in his genuine one, “Thank you for hosting us tonight. First, I must thank Mr. Leabrook for the patronage he has shown us in allowing us to use the market square.”

So that’s why Mr. Leabrook let them use it, I thought. On the condition that they thanked him at the end.

Toby continued, “This has been a special performance for us, and we would like to dedicate it to our dearly-missed friend, Lisabeth.”

Hearing this, I felt a strange wrenching in my gut. It was unpleasant, but only for a brief second, only for that flicker of a moment when hearing my mother’s name brought grief. But that feeling was gone just as quickly as it came, and instead I felt a warmth spread through me. It could have been the mulled wine I had drunk, but somehow, I thought not. Instead, I knew that I was happy to see my mother remembered like this.

A hand slipped into mine just then, and I didn’t even need to turn around to know it was Ophelia’s. I had never held her hand before, but somehow I knew. She gave my hand a squeeze. I told her how amazing she had been tonight, and she thanked me. Just a second later, my hand was empty again.

When Yulthor Day finally arrived at the craftstead, it found us gathered around a huge table in the craftstead yard. On it was a Yulthor themed tablecloth, along with lots of seasonal decorations such as glittered acorns and bells tied on pieces of string.

Just like a few nights earlier in the market square, there was a canopy above us, and set on poles in each corner were glow stones that kept the icy chill at bay. Two huge mounds of snow were piled over by the supply shed, and I had used my alchemic grit to make sure the yard and the hill were completely free from treacherous ice and would stay so for all of Yulthor Day.

The table was one that Cooper had crafted specially for the occasion. It seated twenty people, which meant that it accommodated all our guests and had room to spare. Even so, the craftstead hadn’t seen so many folks since Cooper and Janey’s wedding. There was the usual group of me, Chris, Paisley, Phil, Jester, Cooper, and Janey. Jace Porter had also come to the craftstead for Yulthor Day, although their new head of house, Sara-Rose, had gone back home for the holidays.

Then there were the Fiends, who were going to move on in a couple of days as long as the promised snowstorm wasn’t too severe. Not today, though. Living on the road meant that their Yulthor days were often spent in taverns, and so a home cooked meal wasn’t an offer they would refuse.

Completing our little Yulthor gathering were a few folks who just needed a place at a table, a plate full of food, and people to enjoy it with. There was Percy Tattersall, who had arrived with gifts for everyone. These were all books from his store that he hadn’t been able to sell, of course. When Paisley had learned that Mr. Tattersall couldn’t visit his daughter and son-in-law for Yulthor, she’d sought Cooper’s permission to invite him to the craftstead. Sitting next to him, carefully positioned at the quieter, far end of the table, was Hattie Greaves, her bulk filling a chair and her smile warming the air. She’d returned to her house in the woods a few days ago, and I had made sure to head straight there and invite her to join us for Yulthor Day. To my surprise, she’d accepted.

It wasn’t long before we were all seated and the feast began. Cooper, Janey, Chris, and I had divided the responsibilities. Mine was to make sure I made a huge batch of the crispiest roast potatoes ever, as well as to produce several bowls filled with roasted vegetables. Cooper took care of the Yulthor goose and generous servings of red wine gravy, while Janey had bought enough sticky toffee pudding, treacle cake, and strawberry trifle to give the entire gathering tooth cavities. Chris, meanwhile, had volunteered to make sure the day passed without a single mug or glass being empty for too long.

After a few trips back and forth to the kitchen, the four of us managed to lay our feast on the table. There were gravy boats, bowls with red cabbage, trays lined with a treasure trove of vegetables. The hardest thing was making sure we spread the bowls and trays out evenly so that everything was within reach of all our guests. Despite our efforts, dishes were passed back and forth. Jester asked Chris to pass the potatoes, Janey asked for the sprouts from Phil. Plates were soon filled with each owner’s desired amount of food, and then just as quickly emptied.

Wearing a Yulthor jumper that betrayed the hint of a round belly full of goose and potatoes, Percy Tattersall gave the sudden expression of having remembered something. Reaching into his coat pocket on the back of his chair, he produced a folded up piece of paper, tattered and stained with age.

“Jester?” he said. He leaned across the table, accidentally trailing his jumper sleeve through the gravy on his plate. “I found this in my desk drawer when I was having a clear out.”

Jester took the paper, a confused look on his face. “Oh? What is it?”

“Years ago, your aunt came in with a catalogue of all your uncle’s books. She wanted them valued, though it was a waste of my time as she didn’t end up selling them.”

Jester unfolded the paper excitedly, his eyes flicking up and down as he read the list. “This is it, Lewis!” he said, showing more enthusiasm than anyone ever had for a list of books. “A complete list of all the books in the cottage!”

As if Jester’s day couldn’t get any better, something wondrous happened moments after.

“Speaking of books,” said Jace Porter, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. I have a little distillery near Hattersdale, and I wondered if you wouldn’t mind looking over the accounts.”

“Me?” said Jester.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Jester looked like he might burst with excitement. But then the preparation that the Fiends had given him kicked in, and he said calmly, “We can arrange a date after dinner, Mr. Porter. I’d be happy to help.”

Soon, it was time to exchange Yulthor gifts. Knowing that Percy and Hattie weren’t part of Secret Yulthor, Paisley had already brought them presents from her shop. To Hattie she gave a set of extra tough yet exquisitely styled gardening gloves, and she gave Percy Tattersall a vial of window cleaning liquid. I half thought about mentioning that I’d made it, but I didn’t want to take away Paisley’s glory.

People began opening their presents, and the folks who’d bought them watched with anticipation. It wasn’t long before the ‘secret’ part of Secret Yulthor was abandoned as people eagerly explained their reasonings for choosing this gift or that.

“You’re not supposed to tell each other,” sighed Big Henry. “That’s the whole point.”

Cobby had bought Toby a bottle of the best whiskey in Sunhampton, while Toby had given Chris a book on acting, in which he’d inscribed his name and a wish of luck on the inside cover.

“It might be worth something one day,” he said.

Soon, a mountain of wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows built up next to the table. I watched gift after gift get unveiled, feeling a growing sense of anxiety after each one. Finally, the moment came. Sitting across from me, Ophelia unwrapped the present I had given her.

Inside it was a wooden box that I had crafted. I had also stuck a piece of string and a tag to it. Ophelia read it out. “For summer nights sleeping under the stars.”

She opened the box and took out a small, glass vial. The liquid inside was light blue, a summer’s day sky. She shook it.

“It’s nothing special,” I said. “Just something I brewed. An anti-midgefly tonic. Splash a little on your face and they won’t bother you all night. I thought, you know, you mentioned how you love to sleep outdoors in the summer, except for the flies…”

She smiled at me, an expression that held mysteries deeper than artificery could go. “It’s lovely. Thank you, Lewis.”

Then came the time for my gift. By a process of elimination, I knew that mine was from Janey. The package was the size of a shoe box, and it made a rattling sound when I very gently handled it. I expected that there would be alchemy tools inside, and I was excited to see them. Most crafters love nothing more than getting new, better tools, and I was no different.

Or so I thought.

Inside the box, however, was an even greater gift. There, resting on a bed of crimson velvet, was a token. Bigger than the ones that fit inside my token bracelet. Shiny and gold, glittering with promise.

“My adept token,” I said, savoring the feel of the warm metal against my palm. I became briefly aware of how much I was smiling, how wide my grin was, but I didn’t bother to correct it and act more serious. Not even with Ophelia watching. Way across the table, Paisley smiled at me. Next to her, Chris had already fallen into a post-feast doze.

“I wrote to the guild,” said Janey. “Telling them that you had satisfied your requirements for the adept ranking.”

“But you’re not an artificer,” I said.

“I am a master-ranked crafter. That is enough for the guild to issue a token.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Truly. It’s the best present I could have gotten.”

At this, Cooper gave me a curious look, but I quickly forgot all about it when I noticed a slip of paper taped to the underside of the box lid. Carefully freeing it, I unfolded the sheet and saw familiar handwriting.

To Artificer Lewis Cooper,

Or should I have written ‘adept artificer Lewis Cooper?’ Look at you, climbing up a rank without your old pal showing you his tricks. Come to think of it, it’s been too long. I think I ought to pay a visit to Sunhampton soon. Don’t know when - I suppose you’ll see me when you see me.

Just then, whether by coincidence or fortune, the yard bell rang. I strolled across to the brow of the hill and peered down at the slope, which sported a narrow path of melted snow thanks to my alchemical grit. Standing at the bottom, wearing a robe that covered them head-to-toe, was a tall and very slender figure.

I unlocked the padlocks on the artificed cart and sent it down the hill, then headed into the kitchen to where Chris had left a huge pan of mulled wine warming on a lightly heated glow stone. After filling my cup I headed back out into the yard, just in time to listen to Cooper telling everyone the story of how he’d once been arrested on Yulthor Day.

The artificed cart soon arrived back at the craftstead. On it, reclining in the driver’s seat, was my friend James Trafford. He removed his hood to reveal his hair, now shoulder length and glossy. His face was tanned, which wasn’t so strange for a person who lived in Port Vesta, and his eyes were brimming with light and with unspent energy.

He hopped down off the cart. I approached him, and we had a short hug.

“Good to see you,” he said, slapping my back.

“Good to see you too,” I said, slapping his back harder. “But what-”

“What am I doing here? I was going to spend Yulthor Day in my room at the guild, until a delightful lady named Janey Morgan wrote to me.”

“To you, or to the guild?”

“Both. I’m a fully recognized guild instructor now, Lewis.”

“And Janey invited you here?”

He nodded. “I was going to deliver your adept token by hand, actually,” he said. “But you know what Yulthor Day is like. If I hadn’t been able to get a cart here, you’d have been without a gift. So I sent it ahead, and promised I’d make my way over in time for the feast. A promise, it seems, that I haven’t kept.”

Janey rose from her seat. “I kept a plate back for you, Instructor Trafford. It’s warming in the oven. I’ll get it.”

“Oh, no, you sit down. You’ve done enough, no doubt. I’m sure I can find the oven…as long as I can locate your kitchen.” James rubbed his hands together. “But first, where’s the beer?”

James Trafford visiting from Port Vesta had been perhaps the only thing missing from this being the greatest Yulthor I’d ever had. And now, here he was. I supposed there was one person absent, though. There always would be. But though she couldn’t ever be present, she’d never be forgotten. Not with Lisabeth’s Five Fiends touring Easterly.

As the afternoon turned to evening and the chill in the air became too strong for the glow stones to compete against, we moved indoors. Soon, Chris snoozed in a huge armchair, while Paisley and Janey sat in the kitchen, drinking wine as Paisley dispensed business advice to the much older master. Jester and Jace were sitting at the small dining table, having a brandy each and whispering about distilleries and taxes.

With one wolfhound sleeping at his feet and another with its huge head resting in his lap, James told me about how his work as a fully-fledged guild instructor was going. He followed this with many separate, shorter tales about his failed romances. I, in turn, told him about what I’d been up to with my alchemy, with Mrs. Greaves’ Garden, and Spruce Wilkinson’s ordering system.

Overhearing me, Master Cooper said, “Where is old Spruce, anyway? I invited him. I could swear I did.”

“He and Mrs. Grant are spending Yulthor day together,” called Janey, from the kitchen.

Before long, almost half our gathering had fallen into gentle snoozes. Those who were able to fight off feast-induced sleep were playing games, while James had become the wolfhounds’ official provider of entertainment and scratches, whether he liked it or not. Even Bones sought attention from him.

“Lewis,” said a voice. Looking up, I saw Cooper standing by the kitchen door, draped in his huge fur coat. Grabbing my own coat from the coat stand, I put it on and then followed the old master out into the night.

The winter wind blew through the yard, and snow had begun to pile on the canopy roof. The canopy wasn’t artificed – we hadn’t had time – and we would have to take it down before long.

“Got you a little something for Yulthor,” said Cooper. “Open your hand.”

I did so, and felt him press something metal against my palm. Looking down, I saw that it was a silver key.

“What’s this for?”

“Your new store,” he said.

“My what?”

“You’re the official Sunhampton representative of Cooper and Cooper Artificery, Lewis,” he said. “Mr. Flueitt’s gone, and it’s no longer a tailor shop. From now on, you’ll be in town, handling all the small to medium sized artificery jobs, the ones that befit an adept artificer. Anything big, we’ll take a look at together.”

“It’ll be a slog, Master Cooper, bringing all my finished items up and down the hill for you to check.”

“A master doesn’t check on everything an adept does,” said Cooper. “There’s no need. You’re a fine artificer, lad.”

“Thank you.”

“But listen to me. Your store is right next door to Ms. Porter’s, and I don’t want you getting distracted by talking to your friend all day. You’re the face of our business now, my boy. No longer will people have to take a cart all the way up here. You can deal with them right there in town, instead. Use that winning personality of yours to charm them, and your artificeric skill to make sure they stay charmed.”

It was hard to know what to say to such a speech, laced as it was with slight insults, genuine compliments, and perhaps the best news I had ever gotten.

“I won’t let you down,” I finally managed.

“I know you won’t, Lewis. Happy Yulthor.”

“Happy Yulthor, Master Cooper,” I said.

Thank you for reading book 3. Small-Town Crafter book 4 is now available for pre-order, and is due to release December 15th.

Pre-order it here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0CKSNXLVT