DB Lazarus
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25. Visiting the [Tailor]
🕑 Added 2024-11-24 05:00:03 +0000 UTCWe headed towards the crafting section of the camp, which lay in the shadow of the mountain. What remained of my hospital attire fit under my arm in a depressingly small bundle. As we headed to a set of small buildings the size of cottages, Ættir, Oresiani, and Volki flowed towards the mine’s opening in discrete clumps.
“Are we going to be late?” I didn’t need another excuse for the Verndari to use against me.
“No. It isn’t either of our turns to come in early or to set up.”
“Would someone have informed me?”
He paused, thinking about it. “Maybe? I can ask one of the Hærliðar,” not adding, “for you.”
“Thanks. Not sure what I would do without you.”
“Be dead?”
“I was that bad?”
“Yes.”
On that cheery note, we arrived at the [Tailor]. Dorian stopped, hand on the door, whose quality rivaled that of the General Supply. “Let me try to negotiate here. She comes off like a caring grandmother, but she has heartwood for a spine. The goal here is to get her to agree to consider working on your stuff.”
“Wait a second, Dorian. You made this sound—“
He pushed open the door and walked into a room awash with colors. Bolts of bright fabric were stacked in piles in all corners of the room. Half-finished outfits—dresses, tunics, pants—hung from dress forms and hangers. Not a one was appropriate for mining.
In the corner sat a petite, Oresian woman with auburn hair marked by hints of grey and held back by a vibrant cloth headband. She wore a simple but intricate indigo, long-sleeved blouse that covered all but the tips of her fingers. At first glance, she showed none of her age. But when she crinkled her aquiline nose in concentration, crow’s feet around her eyes belied her otherwise timelessness.
She hadn’t bothered to look up from the project when we entered nor as we approached. She, however, did pause for just a second before she returned to work on a garment fit for a socialite or, perhaps here, a king. When she did, the cuff of her blouse slipped enough to betray much more of her age. Her knuckles had more than the first hints of arthritis, though they had no impact on her profession that I could see. She deftly wielded a needle and thread as she made a series of minuscule stitches. It impressed me in its own right, but then her hands became a blur, moving faster than the machine my mother had used to make my Halloween costumes.
I stopped in surprise, but Dorian registered neither the impossibility of her hands’ movements nor the more mundane lack of her response to our entrance. He casually walked over to a particularly vibrant bolt of crimson cloth.
“Nice stuff.” He raised a hand to touch it.
Though her eyes never left the cloth on the table, she snapped a warning as his finger approached the fabric. “You touch it, and you lose those fingers.” A slight increase in air pressure accompanied her words.
I swallowed, my throat going dry. Her hands had not slowed. Her head had not risen. Yet, she had noticed Dorian’s movements. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew everything that was happening in this room.
“Harsh,” was Dorian’s only response.
“That bolt is worth more than one of your fingers.”
“Would you at least sew it back on for me before I saw the [Healers]?”
She put down her work, spun in her chair to face him, and sighed. “Boy, what do you want with me? Can’t you see that I am busy?” She tossed me a quick glance, those vivid green eyes, not too dissimilar from Dorian’s, taking my stock. Then, she paid me no further heed.
“You are always busy, and none of this will be needed for months.”
“I am busy for good reason. I am behind schedule. Work like mine takes time. Now, you didn’t answer my other question.”
“Expertise. We are here because my friend here needs yours. He needs some enchantment and repairs.”
“Don’t insult me. He can’t handle what I do. There are others who are more appropriate for this task. In fact, why doesn’t he bother his own [Weavers] or [Tailors]?“
“He came alone.”
That got a slight eyebrow raise. “You know that I’m quite expensive.”
“I know. That is exactly what made me think of you.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she folded her hands atop each other. Her sleeves inched up, revealing intricate markings that ran down her arm to the back of her hands and fingers. They were so dense they could be mistaken for a tight glove.
“I don’t give discounts no matter how much youngins try to butter me up.”
“Now gran—Avinja, I wouldn’t dare ask. As I said, he’s alone, but not by choice. He was rescued, and as the typical of the Alfa, he now owes a life debt.”
She slammed a hand on the table. “Boy, why didn’t you just lead with that?“ He shrugged, but he couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eye. I had to give it to Dorian. He played her like a fiddle. “Though, you are courting trouble with this one. It will catch up to you one of these days. “
“Already has,” he muttered before continuing. “His starting gear is non-standard, but he had it in lieu of his allotment.” He quickly added, “what he is wearing now is what’s left over from the previous occupants.“
“Hmm, I might be able to make that work for some of the items. She will throw a fit when she sees the bill, but there won’t be much she or the Alfa can do.”
Dorian just shrugged his shoulders, apparently knowing the “she” that the seamstress was referring to. “You tend to have more leeway than most.”
“I earned that.” She got up from a chair and walked to a small counter. Joints popped with each distinct movement, but she showed no signs of discomfort “What’s your name, young man,” she asked, finally giving me more than a cursory glance.
“Daniel”
“Well Daniel, make yourself useful and put your clothes in this bag.” She tossed me a coarse brown sack from underneath the counter. “I can’t promise you anything, but at least take a look. I won’t do anything that costs you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” She didn’t ask for it, but her presence somehow demanded respect…and every fiber of my being told me that not giving it to her would be a very bad idea.
“Bah! I am not that old. You can call me Kyria Rhaptis.”
Dorian snorted. “Lady—”
The pressure and gravity in the room multiplied. My knees wobbled, but before they collapsed, the pressure eased. Whatever comment Dorian planned on making remained unsaid. I swallowed at the casual display of power before putting my clothes into the bag. I handed it to her. “Thank you, Kyria Rhaptis. I appreciate you taking a look.”
She smiled at me. “Such a respectful young boy. I will try to take a look at this in the next few days. Check back after your shift around then.”
“Any time too late?”
“Do I have anything else to do?” Before I could answer, she shooed Dorian out with a hand. “Now take that sassy mouth elsewhere. I have work to do.”
As I moved toward the exit, I swore I could make out a pressure pushing us towards the door.
***
I followed Dorian as he left the building. He remained uncharacteristically quiet until we had put some distance from the shop. “I would call that a success.”
Sure, but that glossed over so much more. “What was that?”
“A cranky old woman.” For all his confidence, he still shot a quick glance backward and whispered as he said it. I couldn’t help but notice that, while not quite fleeing, our pace was definitely not a causal walk.
“No, that pressure.”
“Oh, an aura and a damned powerful one.”
”Uh, I’m not sure I am familiar with that type of aura.” Visual changes before migraine or premonitory sensation before a seizure that definitely was not.
“Be glad. It was a fraction of what she could exert.”
“So, just to be clear, I wasn’t making up that subtle increase in air pressure.”
“Nope.”
I hesitated because it seemed ridiculous, but if I didn’t ask… “And that force pushing us out the door.”
He nodded. “Yep. Also her.”
I swallowed. Telekinesis?!? Magical healing and now telekinesis? “Do most classes have auras?”
“Sort of. They tend to be rare, but mostly because they don’t manifest until higher tiers. They tend to develop earliest in classes that require a combination of high Mind Potentials, specifically Projection.”
Of course. I let out a resigned sigh. “I am starting to see a pattern here.”
“Yeah, there is a reason Projection is considered the most powerful Potential by most. It is also one of the rarest.” He gave an encouraging smile. “So don’t feel bad. You aren’t alone. Also, for what it is worth, cognitive classes are rarer in general, at least for Oresiani. Still, you may get an aura if you level. Even physical classes can get them when they hit higher tiers.”
“And a [Tailor] is a cognitive class?” He looked at me like I was dumb. “Right, she is more than a [Tailor].“
“Oh, yeah. That would be her hobby or, more appropriately, her passion. It is the only reason she is here; the only reason she tolerated an expedition with life debts. She needs the supplies only found in a location of this high a tier.”
“How is she making use of stuff from a mine?”
“She isn’t, or not to a significant degree.” He pointed to the walls. “Beyond those exist just as much treasure as in there.”
I followed his gaze as it moved from the imposing timber walls to the mountain’s entrance. The number of people entering had picked up from earlier in the morning. Knowing what I did now, I had greater admiration for this expedition. Supporting this number of people in hostile territory required significant logistical know-how and…diplomacy.
Our pace, like those around us, slowed as we neared the entrance, its narrowness limiting flow. However, even cramped together, the groups remained segregated. Suspicious and, at times, downright hostile looks emanated from all parties. The Ættir outnumbered the rest by at least a factor of two. However, to my surprise, the miners did not consist of only Ættar or Oresiani. Volki had a showing. With pickaxes and shovels in hand, they were clearly not there for guard duty. Interestingly, they had a smaller stature than the majority of Volki working as guards. Something else to ask Dorian about when we were out of earshot.
“Wait. Does she get a cut of what is mined?”
He snorted. “She would—and a significant one at that—if she wanted it. As with all expeditions, each of the sponsors takes a share—a fee of sorts—for organizing their group. Some people can demand part of that fee for bringing a specific skill set.”
“Kyria Rhaptis being one of those people.”
“Exactly. So she could demand a decent cut, but her hobby typically makes little use of the crystals mined.”
“So what is her—“ A hacking cough echoed down the entrance. It went on for seconds. I stood on my tiptoes, but I couldn’t see past the wall of Ættir. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Heard worse.”
“It’s common?” No one here wore any masks or filters.
“Can be, though typically not at this level. However, he probably isn’t a [Miner]. We get a few skills to help with dust, but that is what they have [Healers] for.”
I guess Black Lung and Silicosis isn’t a thing with magical healing. Lucky them. How many people back at home would have killed to be cured of chronic coughing and shortness of breath? The best ”cure” we had was a lung transplant, and that came with its own host of complications.
We walked down through the main cavern, our steps joining the echoing drumbeat of boots slapping stone. The column of workers unwound into distinct sets, each funneling toward the various exits of the main caverns. This was not a small operation.
“Dorian, you sort of alluded to this already, but who actually organizes all this?”
“My clan—well, technically, one of our companies. The Alfa fronted much of the cost and,” spitting out the words, ”the labor. This is a small operation really, but the distances traveled and area’s tier make it within our expertise. Few clans have a company of our caliber to mount an expedition at this level. The Alfa is paying good coin for this,” and adding in a mutter, “probably reaping a large profit.”
“Why—oh, life debts.” Not hard to profit with minimal labor costs. Dorian grunted in assent. “Is it typical to use indentured labor?”
“In some less reputable parts.”
And yet, his clan, or at least a representative of it, did. What did that say exactly?
He didn’t explain further, and I didn’t push. Our conversation died down as much from the topic as the increase in other, possibly less-than-friendly ears. We wound through the passageway to the next cavern. Watching the entrance, the Verndari stood in the center of the cavern. He didn’t bother to hide his sneer as we came into view. “Oresian, I’m impressed. You finally found a way to make sure you aren’t always the last one to arrive.”
“I hit my quotas and then some. Let me know when you are ready to take my advice.” The Verndari’s face darkened, but Dorian continued undaunted. “Now, do you want us working the new vein or opening up a tunnel towards that other vein I sensed?”
“The tunnel.”
“I expected nothing less,” and then, in a grumble, “got to keep trying to keep the Oresian from earning anything.”
The Verndari’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“I said that I will be taking Daniel to show him the ropes. I could use another pick to speed up creating the new tunnel.” Dorian didn’t give the Ættar a chance to answer. “This way.”
I followed him to the supply room. As with before, most of the tool racks were bare. I picked up my pickaxe from yesterday and hefted it. It felt…lighter. I flipped the head upward and brought it before my eyes. Definitely the same one. Those brown flecks weren’t dirt. I had seen their like plenty of times when dressing changes came a few days late to know it on sight. Dried blood.
“Put that down.”
I turned and found Dorian holding the damaged wooden pick. “I thought you said it was wasted on me.”
“That was yesterday. Today, it has become quite apparent that you can channel.”
“It was a light stone.”
“If you can do that, you are ready for this. So put that thing back. I know it’s blooded and that it served you well, but this will serve you even better.”
“But my Projection—“
“Don’t be daft. You will be touching. Look, it will serve you well. While this pick is damaged, it is not that damaged. It will channel your Energy to the point of the pick. In fact, the connection is so loose it will be good practice. If you thought lighting stones was tough, try a pickaxe with an unstable connection.”
I glowered at him. “You and practice.”
“You will thank me later.”
“Fine.”
I grabbed the pick, and he nodded. “Skip the gloves; you don’t need that challenge. Also, your hands need toughening up.”
I rolled my eyes at his smirk. The Oresian couldn’t miss a dig, but I still left the gloves on the shelf. He hadn’t steered me wrong so far. I grabbed a few other tools and sundries that he pointed to as we made our way back out of the supply.
We skirted the edge of the cavern on the side without a single Ættar. The lode we were aiming for was in the opposite direction from the latest cavern opened. He stood in front of the wall, hand resting on the smooth rock.
“It is in this direction.”
“The vein?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it far?”
“Hard to say. My skill doesn’t give a precise location. It senses the strength of the Aether. If it is a large lode, it could be much farther way.”
“Either way, it shouldn’t take that long, not with the way you can blast through a wall.”
“That works only if I want to risk blowing us all up.”
“You are joking, right?”
Without a trace of humor, he responded, “I don’t joke about mining. When you are digging towards a node, you have to be careful with Energy projection. Crystals can absorb stray Energy. However, absorb too much and,” emphasizing with his hands, “boom. If you are lucky, it’s just a small clump. Larger ones…they can set off a chain reaction. Second most frequent way a [Miner] dies right behind monster attacks.”
“Should I be…”
“You can barely light a stone. Also, my [Sense Deposit] may not be precise, but it isn’t weak. We aren’t close. You will be fine.” He pointed to my pick. “You should start by practicing infusing the pick and taking some practice swings. Without any skills, it will be the strength of the strike that breaks the stone, but if you don’t infuse the pick, it can crack with a hard enough hit.”
“Should I always keep it infused while I am swinging?”
“Only if you want to run out of Energy before an hour is over.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. It is easier than you think, and I don’t think you have the strength to crack that pick.” He waved me back. “You can still watch me a bit. After that, try some practice swings, and then break down some of the large boulders my strikes make.”
I gave him his space. Dorian didn’t look back and instead stood with a slight squat with the pick raised behind his head. Breath held, I waited.
It was different from the battle. The pick still was a blur, but it was slower. The tip glowed red at the last possible second. Still, the ground trembled at the blow. The pick recoiled backwards in a smooth movement only to quickly fly back forward in another blur to hit the exact same spot. Each blow enlarged the spiderweb of cracks radiating from the impact point.
He never slowed. His rhythm never broke. Dull thud after dull thud. Chip after chip. Blow after blow. Even. Endless. Inhuman. He was a damn machine. He didn’t need my help. For efficiency’s sake, I should just be ferrying away the rocks he created. It was what the Verndari would have demanded. If I couldn’t swing a pick, I would always be relegated to an accessory job without any chance of a payoff. What better way to screw the Human than prolonging his indentured servitude. However, Dorian was giving me an out. He went further in helping me than I bet the Quartermaster would have. That letter to Dorian be damned. If she headed this expedition, she agreed to a deal with the Alfa and life debts. She did not have my best interest at heart.
So, I watched the young Oresian who cared enough to help. This was not an unusual style of learning for me. We doctors may be bookworms, but we had to apply our knowledge. After all, the phrase “see one, do one, teach one” existed in residency for a reason. I didn’t bother trying to understand why he shifted his strikes or increased the power of his blow. I just focused on what he recommended: his Energy.
He didn’t glow, not like other Ættir did when they fought the terrorvoles, but something was happening. With each swing, I could almost feel him exude something. It was more than the air current generated in a swing’s wake. It was intangible, yet it flowed around him.
Energy? Only one way to find out.
I picked up my axe with two hands. The finely sanded handle was warm to my touch. Dorian had already carved a hole deep enough for a person to stand in, yet no boulders to practice on hand—
His swing went wide, and with a crack, the wall split. A rock, the perfect size to practice on, fell to the ground. He never slowed his pace, but that didn’t stop him from cracking a smile.
“Show off,” I muttered before getting to work.
