The shop has a bell on the door, which rings when I push it open. The shop owner—a short, balding human with a mustache that looks like a woolly caterpillar—quickly comes from the back room with a smile on his face to greet his new customer.
He doesn’t stop smiling when he sees me, but the genuine mirth falls out of his eyes and I can tell he has already made judgments about me. It’s only fair, I’ve made a dozen judgments about him and his shop in that same span of time.
Though neat and orderly, I can tell he’s not been in the magic-peddling business long by the way he’s arranged things. Spell scrolls are on scroll shelves on the the wall between the door and the counter, while spell components rest in a case behind the counter. Inks, quills, and other writing supplies are arranged on a long table in the center, including blank spell books. Magic wands and other artifacts are along the store’s window and other books line the wall opposite the scrolls.
Any magician worth his craft will want to hand-pick spell components so the bins should be out on the center table—all except the very expensive and rare ones, of course. Magically-imbued objects should be kept under lock and key, by and large, not displayed tantalizingly before an easily-breakable window. A spry street rat could probably sneak in and snatch one or two without the proprietor even noticing, if he were helping a customer.
If it were my shop, I’d move the blank spellbooks and other writing supplies to the wall where the scrolls are, move the books to the area near the window, and put the scrolls where the books were. That way, the books create the interest to come in, the scrolls draw people all the way into the shop, and the writing supplies are available to the non-magic-users who might come by looking for ink or stationary, but might be too intimidated by magical offerings to feel welcome in the shop.
Though I have plenty of conclusions about the arrangement of the shop, the stock seems of decent quality. I stroll slowly around the perimeter of the shop and take it all in, spending some time browsing the books and scrolls for anything of interest.
The shopkeeper doesn’t say anything to greet me, but doesn’t interfere with my perusal either. Though I take my time, he never excuses himself to the back. I select a few items—a wand of curing, a few leaves of paper, and a scroll for a fog spell—and walk over to the counter. I lay the items down and look down at the diffident man.
“I will see your moth wings, chalk, and small skulls,” I say to him.
I can see him hesitate, but he complies with my request. Shiny, shellacked, wooden drawers slide out of the cabinet behind him. Each one has an elegantly-scripted label on the front. He places them on the counter and I grab the nearest one to look though the contents. He starts when I turn the long drawer sideways to make it easier to search, putting his hands up like he might try to pry it away from me. He settles down when he sees that I’m not trying to run out the door with a drawer full of moth wings, but doesn’t relax.
It takes a few minutes crouched over the slim drawers to select the components I want. I pick them out and place them on the counter, standing up straight.
“W-will that be all?” he asks shakily.
“Yes.”
He timidly reaches for the components to wrap them up.
“No need to wrap them,” I say.
He looks confused but nods and goes about totaling up my purchase. I put the payment on the counter and allow him to take it, rather than try to exchange it hand-to-hand. He holds out my change, but I nod to the counter and he sets it down.
I take the components and put them directly into my reagent pouch on my waist. I slide the wand down into my main satchel. The paper and fog scroll are both slid carefully into my stationary pouch. Finally, I take the change and drop the coins in my coin pouch.
“Uh, thank you,” says the merchant unconvincingly as I turn to leave.
I didn’t notice it before, when I was browsing, but I catch a notice board behind the counter when I turn. I stop and read it.
The board is titled “Wanted” but does not contain posters of criminals. Instead, there are a few cards pinned to it with various magical goods, and their value. One of cards is asking for scrolls of magical language comprehension. It gets my attention because I happen to know the spell in question. It’s not something I use very often—I much prefer to learn a language—but it has helped me pick up new languages quickly or travel through lands where I did not speak the language well enough, or at all. The listed price for providing such a scroll is one gold, which seems quite inadequate, given the materials necessary to make it. The ink alone costs more than that. Perhaps I am missing something.
I turn back to the proprietor and point at the board, “One gold for scrolls of comprehend languages?”
He turns to look at where I point, even though it’s his shop and his board, then looks back at me and nods, “Ah, yes, stock has been difficult to come by. The military has been buying up all they can get.”
“Why only one gold?” I ask, my voice neutral.
“Oh, that is the price I am paying anyone who can make them for me, not the price to buy one,” he clarifies.
One gold for a day spent scribing a scroll is a better prospect, but the materials are still a matter of question.
No need to dance around it, so I just ask, “Who is providing the materials?”
A light seems to go off in his head and he says quickly, “Oh, I am! The shop is. There is a desk in the back with good light, and all the necessary inks and components are provided. Alternatively, if you were to use your own, I will replenish your personal stock at no charge.” He grimaces for a moment and then adds, “By weight, of course.”
Interesting. Not exactly fast money, since most scrolls take the better part of a day to complete, but a good use of my off-time. The Adventurer’s Corps is paying nearly ten gold a day, so this couldn’t replace that. It could, however, get me out of this place that much faster.
I do some quick math in my head. I could probably make three scrolls in two days. Given an uninterrupted week, I could probably create twelve.
“I’m interested,” I say. “I prefer to work independently.” I step up to the counter and pull out my scribing supplies for him to weigh.
He seems a bit taken aback and, for a moment, I’m not sure he’ll agree to work with me. The prospect of getting the scrolls he wants ultimately wins out—no doubt he’ll make a pretty penny off of them if the demand is as high as he stated—so he grabs a ledger and records the weight of my supplies with today’s date.
Could I try to cut out the middle man and sell directly to the military? Yes. Do I want to waste hours of my time talking to military administrators? No. Plus, I might be able to get away with creating an extra scroll or two for myself and let this man pay for it. I prefer to keep a scroll copy of nearly all the spells in my spellbook since, in a pinch like when the assassin attacked, it is more alacritous to cast from the scroll.
I give the man a nod and stride out of the shop with a new project to keep me busy and provide another source of income. Finding a new inn on the east side of town, I set to work creating a scroll right away. It’s barely past noon so I might even be able to finish one before supper.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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