Quill von Barbery of Kweeleh enjoyed a healthy dose of routine. As he did every workday, he woke up gradually, letting meditations turned dreams sink into his subconscious from whence they came. With a full body wiggle against a heavy wool blanket, he stretched and got his muscles and sinews ready for yet another day. Rising, he knew by the angle of the shadows through the narrow window that he had just enough time to brush his chestnut hair before it was time to get the morning paper. Taking three steps from the end of the bed, he looked in the mirror, eyes a vivid hazel and not the least bit bloodshot, for he was a man who liked to get eight hours, not counting the half hour spent meditating before bed and his languid awakening.
He had tied a heavy robe of turquoise cotton around his waist and had his hand on the door to his small, comfortable apartment when he heard the papergirl calling out her first “Extra, extra!” With exact change, and no more, for it never did well to carry too much money, he went out and bought his paper. Setting it on the table, he set about making breakfast. The headlines would still be there after he had stoked the embers in his stove, coming up to temperature just as he had finished mixing the sour cream with ground herring and bread. While his breakfast and lunch baked, for it was a tasty dish and he was a man of economy of effort, he skimmed the headlining article.
Evidently the Earth Guild, Coldpass’ premier mining and quarrying guild, was approaching a pre-Loss artifact under the governing claw of their draconic patron Tome. For reasons he couldn’t name, the idea rankled that the dragon should get credit for the work and risk of the miners unearthing the thing. But then, he supposed it was no different than the credit due the guildmistress for the same work, and he was on cordial terms with the Madame Parchment von Barbery of Pergamina. He didn’t care to think further on the issue, it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it, whatever his feelings regarding the matter.
With a sigh and a shrug, he folded the paper neatly and got dressed for his job at the library-cum-bookstore Dragon Tales. The name, as ever, amused him. Slacks, shirt, vest, suit jacket and cravat, all but the shirt in shades of blue that highlighted his northern pallor. Greatcoat, a necessity in a city warmed by geothermal vents yet never quite warm, an easily bleached white for the inevitable mildewing damp the weather engendered. Against volcanic ash, the second of two kinds of weather the city bore, a wide-brimmed felt hat of dull gray, not intended to impress when it would be removed indoors. He forbore the perfectly acceptable woolen scarf, preferring the slight bite of the wind to the added step of removing and hanging said scarf. Permitted as a general exception to civilians, a dueling foil on his left hip. Finally, at the door, heavy boots in serviceable black.
He took a circuitous route to Dragon Tales, having the time and enjoying the exercise in the brisk mountain cold. Perhaps that was the real reason he went without a scarf; perhaps he found the cold bracing and invigorating, in place of the Fireplains coffee which so many favored. As he walked up the alleyway behind the library, he noticed one of the red bricks which made up its structure was loose, and protruding. Dismissing thoughts of rabid mice, and overcome by curiosity as to who or what might have loosened it, he levered the brick the rest of the way out of the wall. There was, as it so happened, a piece of parchment behind it, written upon in a cramped, spidery hand. It said, simply, “Earth Guild.” Quill found it strange, to say nothing of cryptic, but tucked the piece of paper into his pocket and opened the back door to the library.
It was, as he had admitted to himself, a library-cum-bookstore, but Quill held especial fondness for the library, which was primarily his domain. Oh, certainly, he had superiors he answered to, not dismissing the owner of the entire enterprise, but he organized the volunteers who lent books and reshelved those which had safely returned. It often resembled wrangling cats, getting the volunteers organized, and it did not pay particularly well compared to the tourist or guild enterprises to be found in Coldpass, but it paid well enough and he enjoyed the work. Quill had a knack for forming a rapport with others, and having done that the volunteer cat became much more biddable.
His first stop before wrangling volunteers, however, was the chalkboard which sat before the large front window of the library. Theoretically, he could have foisted this task off on one of his staff, but he took particular pleasure in preparing the morning announcements and writing them in neat, blocky letters. It was rather like his personal reshelving of the library’s small collection of fiction; he arranged the books in a series not by author and then title, but by author, series, and then title, so that if one wanted to find a particular volume of, for instance, the Dragold serial Daring Kaliskast, one could find them in order under the author’s name. Having read a few of them, Quill had serious questions as to why one would seek out that particular series, but it was popular enough. On the blackboard, as he pondered this, he wrote out the titular announcement, having decided upon it in the moment, “Tomorrow, special lecture by leading sorcerer at Power of Engel’s Sanitarium for the Criminally Insane!” He would confidently broach the matter with Doctorate of Sorcery Glue (von Barbery of Glus) during their time together in the Manners Lounge that evening. Sundry other notes went onto the board before he strode into the break room and assessed the morning’s attendance by his cats. Volunteers. Quill quirked a smile at the mental slip. He adored his volunteers, but they could be a handful.
Later that day, he collected his lunch from under the small pile of snow where he had left it and strode towards the main square park, ringed as it was by tables and chairs ostensibly for the patronage of the go-playing crowd. It was exactly one hour before the fashionable time to take one’s lunch, by design in more than one respect. He was meeting a young woman for a business lunch, and the crowds would be a deterrent to the meeting running too terribly long. He preferred to be punctual in attending to his duties, even if he was considered perhaps excessively attentive to a job which only existed because it had to. Quill passionately believed in the necessity of his library position, shuddering to think of the state the library portion of Dragon Tales had been in before his tenure there.
“Cold already? You’re not going to make it the entire hour,” a soft soprano said to him. Looking up from his lunch, he recognized the woman he was meeting from her description. Denouement von Fireplains of Unknota. She wore a light green coat and hat which accented her emerald eyes and brought out the richness of color of her light brown skin. Her black, curly hair was pinned in an up-do of some kind, which flattered her chubby face, broad, flat nose, and generous mouth. An interior voice told him to cool his head as he rose to his feet to shake her hand, and proximity made visible the runes active on her coat to combat the cold. But then, he’d known she was wealthy from the start, and her name marked her out as a stranger to Barbery, but to enspell a garment spoke to considerable resources.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“I’m surprised you found me so easily,” Quill replied, having made all these observations in the span of a moment. He realized he would have to win out over his attraction to make an objective assessment of her competence. It was not her appearance he found most arresting, though he would scarcely dare despairage her looks, but her self-possession, proverbially tweaking the nose of a prospective employer; not to mention the good taste to wear air runes without underlying stitching. She had money but did not care to advertise that fact by more than fine tailoring and expensive protection from the elements. Similarly, she appeared to have bought her lunch not from one of the promenade stores catering to passing merchants, but instead one of the smaller stores on the side streets. Her boots testified to her having left the covered city square. It would have cooled his ardor some to notice her insulated pewter cup of coffee, but she was from the Fireplains where it was grown; it could well be a creature comfort rather than a mark of status. Was, in fact, more likely a creature comfort given her understated rune branded clothing.
“Let me tell you, Quill of Kweeleh, there are only so many gentlemen enjoying a herring paté and decked out entirely in blue.” Quill colored to have been characterized so, and also resolved to buy from a more expensive fishmonger if the nature of his lunch was apparent by the smell on the breeze even after a morning in the snow. Denouement sat opposite him, setting down a lunch of light pastry and spiced eggplant. “So. To business, or would you prefer to talk? So often, I’ve found small talk makes my employers uncomfortable.”
Quill knew in an instant that he would very much like to make small talk, but also that their time was limited. “Perhaps a compromise? To business, and small talk with what time remains to us afterwards?” Denouement tilted her head and smiled a little, nodding. “So. Business. We have some high-altitude spelunking for you to undertake.” For a moment, he wondered at his word choice, before deciding that “we” included his superiors at Dragon Tales.
Denouement expressed confidence in her ability to manage ordinary caving, and even extraordinary caving. Some of her remarks hit on curious blankness in his mind, filed away and forgotten almost immediately. But on the whole, it was a productive and pleasant business lunch with a woman whose wit and intellect were an absolute delight. She had incisive questions as to the elevation and hazards involved, and provided him with a list of gear she would require to undertake the caving. “And your objective is any and all books which might have been preserved by the elevation, isolation, and cold?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” The second half of her statement was swept away by the wind. The square was growing crowded, and it was with some regret Quill concluded their meeting. He very carefully had avoided making overtures; it would be inappropriate until their business was concluded, and like as not cause discomfort in someone with whom he had only exchanged correspondence. It was his distinct impression, however, that she was entirely aware of his interest, and found it amusing. He was not used to being the subject of humor in that fashion, but it certainly, to put it bluntly, beat the sunshine out of revulsion.
Lunch concluded with time to return to Dragon Tales and make sure his volunteers returned from their own lunches on time. The day passed, like so many, unremarkably, aside from a single rankling encounter. While it was no secret, it seemed to be passed along on the grapevine of those who frequented the library that he was an Incarnate Wholist. This was not in and of itself a problem, Coldpass was not intolerant of religious difference, but the questions he received on the matter ranged from the imbecilic to the insulting. Today was a typically earthbrained take on Incarnism, in which he was asked whether the One God was in the book the lackwit hefted. Though Quill was tempted to retort something to the effect of the book containing the Lord only if the man could read, he took a deep breath and replied patiently that it was even in Wholist doctrine that the One God created all things, was all things, and was in all things in the form of the Word. Predictably, this took the wind out of the man’s sails, for he lacked the understanding of Incarnism to reply. Quill felt more drained from the exchange than he did from the day’s labors or reigning in his interest to speak intelligently with Denouement. If only it weren’t nearly every day, it would be so much more bearable.
Dragon Tales closed for the day, Quill set out for the Manners Lounge. There, he met with Glue von Barbery of Glus, a tall, lean individual with wispy straw-colored sideburns and a long braid, brown eyes made to look sallow by a yellow robe trimmed in an even paler yellow. As they were so fond of saying, not only was yellow the color of air sorcery, but it was a happy color and happy inmates of the Power of Engel’s Sanitarium were imminently rehabilitated inmates. Presently, Glue was cooing over the toy drake of Parchment von Barbery of Pergamina. He didn’t know Parchment as well, but could hardly complain, as she sponsored their membership at the Lounge and she was in any case devoted to the ideals Quill held dear. She was of average height for a man, making her shorter than Quill but tall for a woman, and carried her weight in her bust and belly. Her eyes were almost black, and the electrical burns of cutting-edge earth runes marked her right arm, intentionally exposed on an otherwise conventional and expensively-tailored pantsuit.
They settled on one of the general-purpose couches of the Lounge, having little of significance to discuss. They smoked a flavored plant fiber, no more intoxicating than blittero, but pleasant and affording plentiful opportunities to draw thoughtfully before replying to a question. Quill mentioned a book he had been intending to lend to Parchment, and offered to come by the following day. She agreed, though she had a busy schedule she would see to it that her secretary let him in to deliver the book. Glue mentioned that one of their inmates, rehabilitated by air sorcery, would be being released the following day. Under supervision, of course. Parchment expressed curiosity as to the mental state of the patient, Power of Engel’s being a sanitarium for the criminally insane, after all, and they made a date to allow Parchment the opportunity to interview the inmate before his release. Realizing he couldn’t recall, Quill inquired as to the name of the toy drake. With a wry chuckle, Parchment replied, “Tome Junior. He was a gift from the Earth Guild’s patron, the air dragon Tome. He finds the name amusing in a blasphemous kind of way.” Something about irreverence towards an agent of the divine sat poorly with Quill; but no, it wasn’t that. Quill sighed. It was a thought doomed to remain on the tip of his brain, it seemed.
After an enjoyable evening, including fine fare courtesy of the Lounge, Quill excused himself and returned to his abode. He undressed slowly, preferring to end his day much as he began it. As he folded and sorted clothing between that which would be washed and that which would be worn the next day, he recalled Denouement’s commentary on the monotony of his attire with chagrin, he breathed slowly and deeply. While posture and stillness helped, Quill was quite practiced at meditation and could reach a shallow meditative state while accomplishing his preparation for bed. He sat on the floor when he was ready, and spent a passive few sandglasses meditating on the divine and the day’s events, watching his thoughts without attempting to judge or change. When he laid down in bed, he fell almost immediately asleep.
