The Merchant Adventurer Page 2

  Staring into the glittering facets of the ruby, Rattick answered the dead woman. “Why? Because it was a kindness. Because there are worse things in the depths of this dungeon than you can imagine. Because this is what happens when you choose to play a dangerous game. All of those are close, but if you really want the truth of it…” He looked up and saw that she was dead. “Because I can.”

  2

  Rattick threw the necklace on the oak counter and watched the light dance in it like a living thing. He nodded at it and asked, “Have you ever seen such exquisite workmanship?”

  Boltac, the Merchant on the other side of the counter, picked up the ruby necklace and examined it closely. He gave Rattick a hard look and frowned. Maybe the deal was good, but this shifty-eyed, greasy-hair scavenger looked like he would pick his own pocket if he thought he could get away with it.

  Boltac’s eyes were swathed in a soft round face, but they were sharp enough that Rattick would not brave his gaze. And despite the fleshiness that middle age had added to Boltac’s neck and gut, his jaw had stayed strong and block-like. He was not a man that people easily got the better of.

  Boltac studied the necklace for a while. Then he licked his thumb, rubbed the necklace’s setting, and muttered, “You missed a spot.”

  “Missed a spot?” asked Rattick, as smooth as water over river rock.

  “Blood, Rattick. There’s some blood left on this necklace.”

  Rattick shrugged. “Probably mine. I try to use stealth, but the Orc I took it from put up quite a fight.”

  “En-henh,” Boltac said as ran his hand across his shaven pate. “Not that I want to know, but what is an Orc?”

  “A fearsome new creature wreaking havoc on the good people of Robrecht.”

  “En-henh,” said Boltac, not buying it. “And you, uh, count yourself among those good people?”

  “Of course. I am no mighty Hero, like some, but I do what little I can.”

  “Okay, Rattick, I’m gonna make you an offer on your necklace here. The setting is crap, but the stone is very nice. But before I do – not for nuttin’ but, Orcs? You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  “Oh no, stout Merchant, I assure you, Orcs are very real.”

  “Really? Kobolds, I heard of. Trolls, I heard of. Dragons, sure, but Orcs? C’mon. What does an Orc look like?”

  “Gentle Merchant, I hope that you never see one, but I assure you, if you do, you will know it for the Orc that it is.”

  “En-henh.”

  “Let me tell you the fearsome tale of how I came to acquire this necklace and then perhaps you will better understand the threat that the fearsome Orc–”

  “You can spare me the story, Rattick,” said Boltac.

  “You don’t enjoy Tales of Valor?” asked Rattick with a smile.

  “Tales of Valor? No. I enjoy tales of profit.”

  “I don’t know any sagas that involve tales of profit,” said Rattick. “But Tales of Valor, of great daring… the bards sing many songs of those.”

  “Yeah, I don’t really care for singing either. In fact, let’s just cut all the bullshit. I’m pretty sure I know how you got this.”

  “Yessssss,” purred Rattick, running his finger over the ruby, “but do you care?”

  “Not if you’ll take fifteen gold for it I don’t.”

  “Fifteen gold? I risked my neck for this!”

  “Your neck? I’m pretty sure you risked somebody else’s neck for this particular bauble. Fine, seventeen for the gem, and two gold for the rest of it.” Boltac said, indicating the pile of equipment on the floor.

  “But this sword almost defeated a Troll!”

  “Yeah, and it almost doesn’t have that huge nick in it. And why does everything in that pile smell like Troll shit?”

  They haggled like this for a while, and settled on a price of 22 gold for the lot. When Rattick left, Boltac muttered a curse and had to work to keep from spitting on his own floor.

  He placed the ruby in one of three lockboxes behind the counter and then dragged the bundle of equipment into the back to see how badly he had been taken. The sword was of higher quality than he had hoped for, and there were a number of items that, while they wouldn’t fetch top price, would provide good use. The odd piece of armor, some leather goods. He threw out a badly damaged boot and debated opening a nondescript fabric sack. Sacks could be trouble. For that matter so could gems.

  He grunted as he stood up. He trudged wearily back to the front of the store. From beneath the counter, he produced a brass-tipped wand that was clipped to the underside of the thick oak. He took the wand to the back and guided it carefully over all the items.

  The wand did not grow warm or shriek or vibrate or do any of the many colorful and destructive things it did in the presence of Magic. The wand was not merely a Magic wand. It was a Magic detecting wand. Very rare, very expensive. But, for a man who dealt in items of unknown origins purchased from characters of questionable virtue, it was indispensable.

  “Ennh,” grunted Boltac, more relieved than disappointed. Boltac hated Magic. It wasn’t just dangerous, it was bad for business. When a customer couldn’t try on a pair of gloves for fear that they would turn out to be MaGrief’s Gauntlets of Self-Abuse, business suffered.

  That’s why he kept the wand secreted under his the counter. Pick up a cursed ruby necklace and there was no telling what might happen. Before he had procured his wand, Boltac had spent six months with a cursed Goblet of Thirst stuck to his hand. As annoying as that was, that wasn’t the worst part of the curse. When liquid was poured into the Goblet, it heated up and burned the hand that held it.

  He rubbed the scarred flesh of his left hand. Ugh, Magic. It seemed like it should be useful but its power always seemed to go awry. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was that Wizards had a particularly cruel and ironic sense of humor. Whatever the reason, Boltac was certain that the world would be better off without Magic. But there was nothing to be done about it. People may revile a Merchant but, in the end, a Merchant can only sell what the people want.

  He pulled on a stout thong he wore around his neck and, with a jingle, a cluster of charms, tokens, and amulets emerged from beneath his tunic. He pawed at them for a while until he came to an odd one cast in bronze. It was a small statue of one bull mounting another. The customary token of Dallios, Lord of the Deal. Dallios was a Southron God, little known in cold Robrecht, but when it came to religions, Boltac didn’t discriminate. Boltac was a superstitious man, but he prided himself on being able to make a deal with anybody.

  He kissed the Bull with Two Backs and muttered a prayer of thanks to Dallios that, this time at least, he hadn’t been the bull on the bottom.

  Just then the front door clattered against its crude copper bell. A customer! The Lord of the Deal smiled on Boltac today, and he hurried to see what fresh profit Dallios had seen fit to bring him.

  3

  At the front of the store, Boltac found a strapping young lad, a Farm Boy no doubt, staring at a rack of swords with an open mouth. The boy was so entranced by the cold and lethal steel on the wall that he didn’t even turn when Boltac entered the room. Boltac stepped behind the counter like a captain stepping on the deck of his ship. “Can I help you?”

  “I need a sword,” said the Farm Boy, his eyes not leaving the weaponry.

  “Then you have come to the right place. Welcome, my young friend, to Boltac’s General Store and Dungeon Outfittery. We have everything that a strapping young Adventurer like yourself could need to loot your way to Fame and Glory.”

  “We?” asked the lad, with the kind of innocence that can only come from hard work, clean living, and getting kicked in the head by livestock.

  “Yes, the Royal We. Or, in this case, the Shopkeeper’s We.”

  “But there is only one of you?”

  “Yes, but I am so eager to help you, I will work as hard as two men. Now, what’s the story? Who you gotta stab? Who you gonna loot?”

  “
No,” said the Farm Boy as he hung his head in embarrassment. “It’s not like that. I don’t want to loot anybody. I… I just have to… I mean, I am about to embark on an Adventure of High Purpose and Consequence.” With this last phrase, Boltac’s hopes rose. Maybe the kid was a little slow, but those fancy words sounded like money to Boltac. He smiled like a fleshy shark.

  “My friend, you have come to the right place. High Purpose and Consequence is what we are all about at Boltac’s. Why, the Duke of Robrecht himself has granted me my license to purvey. He has an eye to quality, his Dukeship does, and his warrant of commerce personally guarantees that this,”–he indicated his dark, dusty store with an expansive gesture of his hands–“is the finest merchandise you can buy in the town of Robrecht.”

  “But, yours is the only store the Duke allows in the town of Robrecht.”

  “Yes, I see that you are a quick study,” said Boltac, directing the young man back through the shelves. “I invite you to direct your keen wit toward my wares. Here we have an assortment of torches and oil-bearing devices. If you notice this one–with the curved blade on the handle–particularly good if you are surprised coming around a corner.”

  Boltac turned the Farm Boy sharply and indicated a floor-to-ceiling rack of glass bottles, “Here, of course, we have our major and minor healing potions–antidotes, ointments, and unguents of all kinds. A must for any prudent Adventurer. These potions are brewed by the finest Mercian apothecaries and brought in by mule train once a moon.”

  Moving right along, Boltac directed his young shopper towards the racks in the back, “And here is the armor. A must for all but barbarians and the most self-confident Magic workers. You aren’t a Magic worker are you?”

  “I don’t think so,” said the lad, a little overwhelmed by how fast this was all coming at him.

  “Perfect, then you have your choice of chain mail, splint mail, ring mail, plate mail, plate armor and–far less protection but the girls love it–leather armor. Feel that? Very supple.”

  “But what I need is a sword,” protested the Farm Boy.

  “En-henh,” said Boltac, “Which brings us to back to lighting. A question of prominent importance to any Adventurer.”

  The Farm Boy looked longingly back at the swords.

  “I know, I know,” continued Boltac, “you think the thing with the pointy end is the most important bit of gear you can buy.”

  “A Hero’s life depends on the strength of his blade.”

  “Sometimes. But there are two things I can guarantee you are going to need. 1) Water. 2) Light.”

  “What about food?”

  “Eh, you can live for days without food. A strong lad like you could eat what he kills, but without water… not so much. And the dark. Are you comfortable in the dark?”

  “I have walked this land at night since I was a small child.”

  “And now that you’re a big child… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just having fun. My point here is, you know what lives far, far underground, in the darkness?”

  “I do not, but I am ready to boldly face the unknown.”

  “En-henh. You got no idea. For that matter, neither do I. But what I do know is that whatever horrible underground thing you mean to bash to a pulp in the name of your personal fame or fortune, you can bet that it can see in the dark.”

  The Farm Boy stood there with a brave, stupid look on his face.

  “And you know what can’t see in the dark?”

  “Uh…”

  “You. You can’t see in the dark. Can you?”

  “No.”

  “Then trust me, you pain-in-the-ass, take a lantern. In fact, take two and some torches, just in case.”

  “What about that one,” the Farm Boy asked, pointing to a lamp that hung on its own peg high on the wall.

  “Oh, that, you have a very good eye, my friend. That is the Magic Lantern of Lamptopolis. It cannot be broken and it never goes out as long as it’s carried.”

  “Lamptopolis?” asked the Farm Boy.

  “Okay, you caught me, I made it up. But it’s a lantern and it’s clearly Magic.”

  “It’s beautiful. How does it work?”

  “It’s Maaaaaaaaagic. That’s how it works. Some kinda glowing crystal in the center there. You pick it up, it turns on. But trust me, it can’t be broken.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You’ve never had apprentices, have you? Third rule of shopkeeping: If a thing can’t be broken by an apprentice, it can’t be broken. Now lemme see here. It’s got an inscription on it…”

  Boltac wrangled a stepladder over to the wall and lifted the lamp from its resting place. As soon as he touched its handle, the crystal in the center of the lamp flickered to life. “Yeah,” Boltac said, rubbing the dust from the letters that were cut into the bottom of the Lantern’s base. “It says, ‘Burns with the Flame of a True Heart.’ Well, it’s not much of a flame, is it? But at least you don’t have to carry oil for it.”

  He handed the Lantern to the Farm Boy. As soon as the boy touched the handle, the Lantern blazed with a brilliant light; so bright, Boltac realized it had been a long, long time since he had cleaned the store. He closed his eyes to stop the pain.

  “Wow,” said the Farm Boy.

  “Give me that,” snapped Boltac, snatching the Lantern from the boy’s hand. The lamplight returned to a dull flicker.

  “How much is it?”

  “More than you can afford,” Boltac grumbled as he hung the Lantern back on the peg.

  “That’s okay,” said the Farm Boy in a fresh-faced and agreeable way that made Boltac hate him all the more, “what I really need is a sword.”

  “Maybe you do and maybe you don’t. Keep an open mind for me. We’ve got pikes, bows, warhammers, battle axes, halberds, flails, morningstars, maces and the largest selection of fine daggers this side of the mountains.”

  “I don’t want a mace. I want a sword.”

  “Of course you do. And once again, Boltac’s has you covered! We’ve got short swords, long swords, broadswords, rapiers, cutlasses, sabers, scimitars, shishkas, slabas–did I mention, the finest selection of daggers of quality this side of the mountains? While it’s true that most of our blades have never been tested in battle, this is in keeping with our philosophy of passing the savings and the Glory on to you.”

  “Well, uh, I’m afraid…”

  “Afraid? A big, strapping lad like you? Don’t be ridiculous. Why, after you’ve been properly outfitted by Uncle Boltac, you’ll have nothing to fear in this world. You’ll be able to take on a Dragon with one hand and an OwlBear with the other. And therein lies the value of quality equipment.”

  “No, it’s just that I’m afraid those beautiful swords,”–his eyes grew wide as he looked at them–“are all too expensive for me.”

  The smile drained from Boltac’s face, but he continued as if he hadn’t just been kicked in the wallet. “Don’t be silly. At Boltac’s, we have equipment to fit every budget.” He kicked a bucket of swords that sat next the counter. “Have a look at our discount bucket.”

  The Farm Boy pulled a sword from the bucket and then dropped it back in quickly. “This sword still has blood on it!”

  “That’s how you know it works! A gold piece gets you the pick of the barrel.”

  “A gold piece?” said the lad, looking concerned.

  “Well,” said Boltac, who was starting to get a very bad feeling about the entire transaction, “At Boltac’s there’s always room to negotiate. But try a few; see how you like the balance and whatnot.”

  “I’ve been trying to save money to buy a sword, sir. Scrounging for herbs, seeing if anyone needs rats killed. But no one needs rats killed. And the countryside is bare for miles around…” He trailed off.

  Boltac nodded knowingly. The only vermin that plagued Robrecht was an infestation of down-on-their-luck Adventurers. “I understand how it is. And how much did you say you have been able to save?”

  “Not enough,
I’m afraid. So I was wondering if I could rent a sword.”

  “RENT A SWORD?” Boltac shouted. “Do you not see the sign?” he asked, pointing at the sign that clearly read, “All Sales Final.”

  “I can’t read, sir.”

  “Oh, of course not.”

  “Please sir, it’s so I can rescue the Love of my Life. She was taken, you see. Abducted by Scoundrels.”

  “Oh, well, that changes everything,” said Boltac, as his face grew hard. “Tell me more?” he asked, as if it were a dare.

  “Well, sir, she is a Priestess of Dar. And, well…”

  “Aren’t they supposed to be virgins? Those Priestesses of Dar?”

  The young man blushed and said, “It’s more of a suggestion than a rule, sir. If you know what I mean.” His face grew serious. “But if it helps, I was a virgin.”

  “Help? How would that help?”

  “She’s gone and got herself into trouble. I’ve gotten word from a friend that she’s being held in a tower and requires a Hero to rescue her.”

  “So what’s keeping this broad from walking outta that tower herself?”

  “Broad? Sir, you speak of the Love of my Life–”

  “No offense, but your life hasn’t been that long yet.”

  ”–and she’s been placed at the top of the tower and sleeps a deathless sleep under an Evil Spell.”

  “En-henh. That’s a Sleeping Beauty, kid,” Boltac said. He was about to explain that the Sleeping Beauty was the name of a con game–popular among some of Robrecht’s less-than-upstanding citizens–whereby a young man was seduced, lured into a trap, and relieved of any valuable items he might have. Like, for instance, a borrowed sword. But the Farm Boy had bolted from the barn, and Boltac could see that there was no catching him.

  “Yes, she is a real beauty, sir. Asleep or awake. I knew you would understand. So, if I had a sword, I could go and rescue her. And there would certainly be Treasure after I defeated the monsters that have been set to protect her from all but the bravest and most faithful Hero. Understand, I have no care for this Treasure. Only my lady Love. So all the valuables would be yours. All that for loaning me a sword.”