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Dearest Readers, may your fields be bordered, not by walls, but by roads to adventures bright and amazing.
THE HIDDEN SWORD: A TALE OF BALDUR'S GATE
Book One: From the Earth | Chapter 30: Borders, Part One
"Is there anything you need of me before I leave for my errands?" Okami inquired as he prepared his pack.
Another day of trade in the City, as clear and plain as any day of spring. At their rented stall in the Open Market, the young elf was tasked to look after the shop, for the blacksmith planned to visit their suppliers for auxiliary materials.
Irse inhaled deeply, the air rattling through her nose from unease as she took a step towards him. In her hands she clutched a sealed and folded letter, fingers pinching at the edges, marking minute creases along the middle of its length.
Biting her lip, the elf glanced down at the parchment, grip tightening as if fearing the words within would spill out and scamper across the floor and through the door, taking with them what middling bit of courage remained in her. The letter had been the product of many nights and burned out lamps spent in her room scratching out phrases she dreaded would say too much, deliberating on which lines were sufficient to convey what she had always wanted to say to the most important person to her.
How does one finally dispel the years of secrecy and silence, and still expect to be pardoned and accepted?
"Could you… no, would you be so kind?" she stammered.
He cast her a questioning look.
"… To, ah, please …," she continued, gathering her shoulders in embarrassment, showing him the letter.
Okami glanced at the folded parchment in her hands, the understanding clear in his eyes.
"You have finally decided to send a message to your foster father."
"Yes, I have," Irse confirmed, anxiously smacking the letter repeatedly against her palm.
"And I was thinking if… you could lend me fifty gold pieces to pay the courier, Teacher? I promise I'll return the money."
Years prior, he had advised her to send word to Gorion, to simply assure the old sage that his foster daughter is well and that she would be true to her word in returning one day. But as with matters that were not about swords and forging and not involving anything edible or usable for a lark, the young elf fretted and dallied.
Fretted, even when she had long ceased from peering out of the windows to watch out for Gorion and his Harper friends or the Watchers showing up at their doorstep to drag her back to Candlekeep, permanently thwarting her search for her true parents.
But things were different this time. For one thing, she was of age now - twenty years alive without interruption.
Old enough to be conscripted into an army, lawfully acquire a plot of land in her name alone and without the oversight of a guardian, apply for clerkship at the Council, join a guild in the City. Of age to determine her own occupation and residence.
Surely, Father would understand her position. And besides, he ought to be relieved and pleased to learn that his foster child was thriving, apprenticed at a gainful profession, competent at defending herself.
And most important of all – never been arrested for any misdemeanor or crime.
Take that, Brother Nador Patron of Butt-Puckerers, she ruminated bitterly, for always declaring the elf would someday land herself in jail and at the stocks, or have her mug drawn on the Fist's bounty notices for the worst criminal scum.
"Allow me to bring the letter to the heralds' post in your stead. It is not far from the tanner's shop," Okami offered, hand outstretched.
"Oh, right. You're off to the tanner today," Irse murmured, passing him the letter.
"Nowadays they charge seventy gold pieces for each message, not fifty as it were when we first arrived here," he remarked, holding up the letter. "There is no need to repay me for this is coming out of your wages."
"Sure, of course. Fair enough... wait! Seventy?" she sputtered, outraged.
Who's delivering parcels and messages now? Elminster on a golden hippogriff? Perhaps she should have sent it five years ago. Imagine how much sweets she could have bought for herself with the savings.
Okami waved the letter at her. "Did you remember to write the day, month, and year?"
Irse clapped a hand over her mouth and snatched the parchment from her Teacher, slapping the paper on the counter to hastily scribble at the space beneath where an unmarked dab of wax sealed the edges.
"Fifth of Mirtul," she murmured as she jotted down the date today, then hesitated.
"You know very well what year it is now. Unless you wish to pass off that message as having left your hands much earlier," he chided, eyes rolling.
Foiled! Irse beamed a guilty grin at her Teacher. He knew her too well. All right, honesty, then. Thirteen hundred and sixty-seventh year by Dalereckoning, she finished scrawling in numeric and with flourish, handed the letter back to the blacksmith.
An elderly woman wobbled into the store, Old Hannie, a seller of beads and trinkets whom they have befriended over the years, a sweet and gentle aged soul.
"Grubby-handed prick-nosed clod says he isn't cuttin' back my rent this month even though 'twas you who fixed the roof and not him which he shoulda'," barked the old lady, clearly referring to the flint-fisted stall owner who rented out the space to her.
Less than a fortnight ago, Irse and her Teacher had taken it upon themselves to make repairs on Old Hannie's stall, for the merchant who owned the deed to the leased space couldn't be bothered to make sure his tenant could conduct business in a dry and comfortable manner during the spring rains.
"You'd think they ne'er had to work under a leaky roof at least once in their molly-coddled lives."
Irse sighed, agreeing with the sad plight of common folk such as themselves. A leaky ceiling might be one of a merchant's problems, that is, the rafters breaking apart from all the gold they've hoarded in the upper floors of their grand marble towers.
"But sod him, I'm not here for that swine," Old Hannie groused, pulling a box out of her basket and placing it on the counter. "You did good work with my roof. Please, take these little bitsies. I got the chewy kind, still a bit crunchy but not like the hardtack type they always sell," she said with gruff cheer.
Nose twitching, Irse's keen elven senses warned her that one of her greatest weaknesses lay within that box. Old Hannie removed the cover, revealing the hidden prize. Cookies. Not just any. Gingersnaps!
Okami responded with something polite, Old Hannie answered back with something about the weather and the weird smells coming out of the store across hers. Irse bobbed her head as she feigned interest in their conversation. Whatever else they talked about has been promptly drowned out by the sight of the cookies, so temptingly laid out before her. Sniffing longingly, her nose could make out generous sprinklings of ginger, cinnamon, and cloves. Soon, Old Hannie seemed to be saying a farewell, unless it was another slur aimed at the lessor who owned the market stalls. Irse absently waved and muttered a send-off as the woman walked away, eyes never leaving the offering.
However, her Teacher broke the spell.
"We may have good use for these," he suggested brightly, swiftly laying down a clean wide napkin on the counter and taking out the cookies by threes, arranging them into neat piles upon the cloth.
Irse scowled with suspicion as she watched him count the gingersnaps, then cut up the napkin into several squares. What other purpose could be there for these glorious discs of sugary goodness other than for marching them straight into her mouth? All of it. Every single piece, no crumb left behind.
"For each customer who buys our merchandise, we give them three pieces as a favor of our gratitude for their doing business with us."
"Like a bribe?" she queried with a sly grin.
Clever of her Teacher to come up with a practically costless means to grease the pockets of potential buyers, leave a pleasant aftertaste leading to possible repeat business. Far cheaper than hiring a troop of musicians to perform and entertain at the store – something which seemed to work for the other merchants and shoppers.
Not for her. Once she wandered into a shop where a bard played and enticed customers with musical praises of the wares. But then, after being spotted and called out from the crowd, and pushed to the front, the store owner had asked the elven girl for a tune. Naturally, Irse blankly, outright, vehemently, and plainly refused.
Are not the Fair Folk known far and wide for their gift of song and voice, he goaded and proclaimed to the others, all of whom were humans, who murmured in agreement and looked to her expectantly.
Mouth flopped open, Irse had stood rooted in place, frozen like a deer in the path of an onrushing carriage, before finally croaking and dashing to grab a couple of random items from the nearest shelf, pelting her coins at the owner's face, then making a break for dear life and limb.
And that, Children, was how your Mother finally fulfilled her loftiest aspiration of acquiring the most expensive high-quality Turmishan socks on nothing but an honest apprentice's wages, Irse mused while one foot absently tugged at the hem of her trousers to conceal the currently donned mismatched pair that she had grabbed from said store in that moment of blank and abject terror.
Nope. No hired minstrels at their store, in this or any time, she made her Teacher swear on his life and honor, which, mercifully, he did without question.
Right then, cookies. A painless offer no one could refuse.
Okami regarded his apprentice with a dry expression. "It is not a bribe, but a thanksgiving gift. To be given after the purchase. Not before," he corrected her.
"Oh. Got it. Give only when they buy," she sighed. Moping at the counter, Irse dejectedly flicked at the side of the box, then perked up as hope crossed her mind.
"… but if there are leftovers at closing?"
"They will last a few more days without spoiling. Enough for the customers of today, tomorrow, and beyond," Okami answered, undoubtedly reading her mind. He gathered his things and stepped through the door.
"And do not neglect to list the sales at the ledger. Should you forget to do so, fret not, we can always account for the inventory afterwards," he added a bit too cheerily before leaving.
She sulked at his parting words. Oh, clever Teacher indeed! Subtle warning that the cookies have been numbered down to the last piece; their depletion must tally with either the ledger or the end-of-day inventory count.
Peering into the open box, Irse warned the baked temptations, "Lucky little buggers, you're not out of the woods yet."
Unmoved by her threats, the gingersnaps merely countered her stare with confident silence.
"As a token of our thanks for your purchase, please enjoy these free cookies," Irse droned in reluctant monotone, stiffly placing the wrapped treats on the customer's palm.
"Oh, how wonderful!" the man exclaimed as he received his gift, then blinked, somewhat confused as he stared at the elf's hand still clutching the small bundle in a death grip.
"Uh, thanks?" he mumbled with a feeble tug of his own.
With great strain and effort, Irse pried her fingers from off the treats, the sudden release sending the customer stumbling for a bit. She shot him a ridding glare. Spooked, he backed away, treats and purchase held tight against his chest, until he reached the door, turned around and scuttled off.
Irse rapped a knuckle on the counter. Three precious gingersnaps given away to reward the acquisition of…
She glowered down at the newly inked entry in the ledger.
… one nail!
She did try to sell him a dozen, but the man insisted he needed only one piece. Who in the realms buys and uses a single nail without a spare just in case?
Irse snorted. A person who still has eleven nails in the bag.
"What's this?" The woman pointed with a mix of disgust and distrust at the bundle in Irse's hand.
"Gingersnaps, ma'am. On us. As a show of thanks for your engaging our services…," Irse replied in a strained effort to conceal the strain in her voice.
"… in straightening out your bent butterknife. At a substantial discount."
A substantial discount demanded with extreme entitlement.
"Eh? Gingersnaps? I hate those things! Never liked 'em. Too spicy! Why would you give me something I don't want?" the woman screeched as she recoiled from the wrapped cookies still on the elf's outstretched palm.
Taken aback, Irse paused, then suppressed the urge to dance a victory jig. "It's the only thing we have to give away to customers. Well, we wouldn't want to impose on you to accept if you don't want it," she said, feigning disappointment at being deprived the honor of catering to this shrew's slightest whim.
But then the woman snatched the small parcel from the elf, harrumphing at the offense of being offered something unacceptable.
"No, I don't. But a free bird's a free bird," she grumbled, roughly pocketing the cookies, then turning around to leave the store in a huff.
Irse blinked, stupefied.
And gritting her teeth, took out a spare butterknife and testily sawed its edge on the counter.
"Cookies! For free! How sweet of you, child," the elderly gentleman cheered with charming glee as his shaking hands waited to receive the free gift.
Irse beamed with indulgence as she gently laid the wrapped cookies on the old man's palm. "It's your lucky day, gramps. Indeed. Out of all the days you decided to step out and get the rostrum on your billhook sharpened and repointed."
Well, that one just earned them a bit of silver.
The aged farmer chuckled and held up the bundle to his nose, sniffing. "Ah, gingersnaps. Reminds me of my dear Gertrude, used to bake these for the children, but now she can't move much anymore so I just buy them for her."
"Aww, that's nice."
Doffing his cap in farewell, the old man turned around with creaky steps, dragging the handle end of the billhook as he made for the door.
Then came the sound of something plopping down on the floor followed by a heartbreaking crunch. The farmer looked down, lifting his boot from off the flattened treats, and groaned as he raised a trembling hand to his face.
"I'm sorry, child. The cookies slipped from my fingers. Forgive me, Gertrude, clumsy old fool that I am," he whimpered.
Irse looked at the elderly gentleman, grinding her jaw as she decided.
"Don't worry, Sir. We still have a handful more. Here, let me wrap some as replacement, still on us, of course. How about we knot it with a string at your wrist?"
The old man smiled back with genuine gratitude. "How kind of you, lass. My thanks."
And with a pained but resigned grin, Irse bowed and drew out from her stores - a spool of twine, another napkin, and three more treasures.