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§061 Bostkirk I
🕑 Added 2025-09-01 20:41:00 +0000 UTCTaylor went straight into the city's Arctown, where most of the inhabitants were arcaic. He had nothing against humans or the rest of Bostkirk as a city, but it was dull compared to the riot of sights and smells in Arctown. Building styles from every race and several eras mingled freely, and every turn brought him face-to-face with some new style he'd never seen before. He used Riverstone, his stick-pin made from an enchanted mana stone, to cast a waterfall illusion around himself as he wove his way through crowded streets. He was less likely to trigger hostility while he was completely hidden, and the people here didn't seem to mind anything odd so long as it wasn't overtly threatening.
His goal was Dwergbank, but he detoured through six different food vendors along the way, then paused in a small park to eat his meal while tiny arc children played an energetic game of tag. He finished with a paper cone of shaved ice drenched in fruity syrup so sweet it made his teeth hurt. Kasper would have loved it. Idly, he flipped open his hand mirror. They had agreed to meet in the evening of every fifth day, and, it being neither the day nor the hour, Kasper wasn't there.
Dwergbank was the same as it had probably been for the last thousand years: sturdy. Of all the extra services offered to ranked clients, his favorite so far was the mail service. People could send letters addressed to him at any Dwergbank branch, and they would hold his mail or forward it as he instructed. He had written the bank two weeks prior and told them to hold his mail in Bostkirk. He was in and out of the bank in minutes, with a bundle of mail and a written hotel recommendation.
The Black Peony wasn't what he expected. The building was an old Elven-style castle, with a base of fortified cut stone that rose fifteen feet above street level. Successive stories were made of white-painted wood and turquoise tile roofs with gables, stacked on top of each other like a layer cake. It reminded him of a building he saw in the Spirit Realm, though he'd never been inside that one.
Taylor passed through the armored double doors to a tunneled stairway that climbed the stone plinth and deposited him in a grassy courtyard. Narrow walkways traced the courtyard in geometric designs. From there, he was eyed by a dwarven doorman who ushered him through a more conventional entrance to the lobby.
Though the outside was thoroughly elven, the inside was an eclectic gathering of styles and accommodations for the hotel's mixed clientele. The ceilings were tall enough for beastkin, the floors were sturdy enough for dwarves, and there was furniture small enough for arcs. The decor had a worn extravagance that spoke of old money and even older blood. A scenic mural on one wall depicted a grassy landscape meeting the ocean. The wainscotting was carved hardwood and had been repaired in a few places. Somewhere, there was a kitchen turning out heavily spiced food. When he had asked for someplace nice, he meant good value for the money. He didn't mean nice nice.
He dropped his Riverstone illusion and presented himself at the check-in desk, uncertain if he wanted to stay there. It was probably too expensive. Nonetheless, he was here, so he might as well inquire at the reception desk, where a pretty bushkin lady waited. He stood on the riser intended for arcs.
"Good afternoon, young man. Did you need help finding your parents?"
Taylor bit back the reflex to say the last thing I need is parents. This didn't used to happen when he traveled with Curator Jane, or when he could put Legate in front of his name and openly carry a sword. These days, he was lucky when people mistook him for an adult arc. More often, they mistook him for a normal human child.
"I'm traveling alone and need a place to stay."
"I'm sure we can find somewhere suitable in another hotel. Let me get someone who can help." She summoned someone from across the room, maybe a manager or concierge. Someone who could handle the unusual.
Taylor knew better than to take offense. After all, he was a strange human child wearing a mask, wandering alone around the city. He could have easily turned around and crossed town to the more familiar Sunglaze Inn, but it irked him to be handed over to someone else like he was a problem. The only reason not to take him was if he couldn't pay.
Taylor switched the conversation to her native Arcaic. "That's disappointing. You came highly recommended by Dwergbank." In Arcaic, disappointment was more than a word. It was a tone that one could add to any phrase. Taylor applied a thick coating to the entire statement.
He placed the card they gave him on the counter. It had the Dwergbank name and icon embossed on one side, and the Black Peony name and address scrawled on the other. He followed that with his Dwergbank ID, a small plate of steel and mithril alloy. He wasn't just a random customer of the bank. He was ranked. Only one in ten customers could brandish Dwergbank mithril, and there was no indication how high up he was on that scale.
"I need a single bed and access to a bath. I also need about forty postcards." He pointedly took several business cards from the little stand. They were supplied to customers for free and had multiple uses. He was fully expecting to stay.
"Of course, sir. The price is twenty dori a night." Twenty was a pair of double-eagle coins. It was more than he had planned on spending, but not beyond his means. But it could have been worse. If she had quoted something outrageous, his pride might have forced him to pay beyond his means, to show he shouldn't be dismissed so easily.
"I'll be staying at least a week," he said. He signed the register, received his key, declined the porter, and took a magically powered elevator to the fourth floor. His room had windows overlooking the city to the south, a private bath and shower, a writing desk, magical lighting, and bedding that looked softer than what he had at the boardinghouse. One hundred forty dori for the week: nearly three small gold coins. He didn't appreciate the sudden pressure to produce funds to make his daily expenses, but that was life. If the food was good, then the Peony would be worth the money.
After a shower, his first task was to sort through his mail. Most of the letters were ubiquitous tri-folded postcards that traversed the city by the thousands every day. Most of them were from people who wanted divine figures. Several correspondents were obviously collectors, and he put those aside to respond to later, with his firm denials. It wasn't worth his time to make divine figures that would sit in a vault somewhere for a chosen few to oggle at. If he was going to invest that kind of mana, the figures should be worshiped.
He sorted the rest of the cards by urgency until the only letter remaining was from his older sister, Cecilia. Unlike the local mail, it was an actual letter spanning multiple pages, shipped in a lavender envelope. It even smelled like lavender. From the pages' texture, there might be real herbs worked into the fibers. He discovered it was multiple short letters, mailed together. The first one read:
Dear "Taylor",
School begins soon, and I'm nervous. The only person I know will be Prudence. Wish me luck.
You were right about the Scholar class. I wrote to Meltissa, and I feel much better after reading her reply. She says you can make a study of anything, so the whole world is open to Scholars. The colonel doesn't care what I study, as long as I catch a husband while I'm here.
The food here is amazing, but I miss the Dimmik karposh we used to get at Grisham's Wall. I heard that place closed when everybody got demobilized. There's supposed to be a karposh place in Celosia, but reservations are impossible to get.
The lack of karposh aside, Celosia is a grand place. They hold six festivals per year, and people wear masks to all of them. You should feel right at home. If you happen to pass by on your travels, don't hesitate to drop by. The Vawdreys would love to meet you.
Your sister,
— Cecilia
The letter made him smile. They had only met once, under challenging conditions, yet she was determined to like him no matter what. In return, she wanted nothing more than to be allowed to dote on him. He decided that, since it pleased them both, he could, for the time being, allow it.
The knock on his door was a porter in her hotel uniform with a stack of postcards and writing materials. The room came with only five postcards and a tiny clay well of ink, and Taylor had already used them for his most urgent messages.
"Has the third post arrived?" he asked the porter.
"Not yet, sir." She placed the writing supplies on the small desk and accepted the cards he had already written. Timing was important. A message sent by third post today could receive a response as early as tomorrow's second post. Any meetings he wanted tomorrow afternoon had to be arranged now. The porter left straightaway to ensure his messages went out on time.
Bostkirk marched to the rhythm of the local post. Messages came and went four times per day, and a significant number of these followed a calendar protocol. A proposer would suggest at least two times to meet, and the proposed would respond. If none of the offered times were acceptable, then the roles were reversed and new times were suggested. The process continued until an agreement was reached. There were documented strategies for offering multiple options to multiple people in a way that minimized conflicts and ensured all the meetings could be reached on time.
Frequently, the protocol was gamed for social dominance. Some people routinely refused all offered times from anyone beneath them so they could be the proposer. A last-minute demand from someone who couldn't be refused often resulted in "calendar wreckage" as chains of meetings were forcibly rescheduled down the social ladder. However, such power moves could backfire. If one gained a reputation as a habitual calendar wrecker, the world might cease to beat a path to one's door.
Taylor wrote several more notes, this time to people he didn't need to see so soon, and carried the cards to the lobby on his way out, well in time for the fourth post. With so much daylight left, and his calendar sufficiently organized for the moment, he headed to the place he was most looking forward to on this trip: the city library.
"I'm looking for a census of magical attributes, both primary and secondary. Does something like that exist, and where can I find it?"
Taylor had to fill out a form, show his Dwergbank card as proof of identity, and pay a hefty deposit to gain entrance to the library. After the formalities were done, he didn't want to waste the hour left until closing time, so he availed himself of the most crucial information resource in any world — the reference librarian. The bearkin looked far too large for her station's desk, and more than a little sleepy. He didn't know much about bearkin aside from their anatomy. Maybe they preferred to sleep in the afternoons. Or, she could be at the end of a long day. Whatever the cause, the bear librarian blinked twice, very slowly, as the usual gears of judgement began to turn. She saw he was masked, which was a little suspicious, and very short, with human ears. She inhaled his scent: human and young. He had good clothes and could afford entry to the library. She should treat him with caution. At times like this, Taylor missed his legate sword. It had been a constant notice to people that he should be treated as an adult, and, for the most part, people behaved accordingly. Without a sword or chaperone, every encounter required negotiation. He had never appreciated the convenience of his status until he lost it.
The bearkin opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted.
"I'll take this one."
The voice drove a shock of recognition through Taylor's body. His skin tingled like he'd been dipped in cold water, and he forgot to breathe. The room got brighter. His befuddlement lasted long enough to give away the fact that he was stirred by her sudden appearance.
"You are Bilius, aren't you? Or is there another human boy walking around in broad daylight, wearing a mask?"
He turned to face her and was immediately caught in Ophelia's emerald eyes. He remembered to breathe, which kicked his stilled heart into action, thudding against his chest. So much blood rushed to his face that he was grateful for his mask. Ophelia, his one-time tutor, was the first person ever to spend time with him. He had once promised to retake her homeland singlehandedly, if only she would stay in Mourne and tutor him.
"Hi," he said. He sounded like he'd been clubbed into incoherence. Her curly red hair and spray of freckles across her nose sent his labored heart into overdrive. Automatically, he switched to Arcaic, but tried to keep some of the feeling out of his voice. How many hours had they spent speaking to each other in that beautiful tongue? Not nearly enough.
"Where did you come from?"
"I work here. Is that so surprising?" She was poking fun at him. She could see perfectly well that he was surprised.
"I thought you had a job in another city. Like, somewhere else," he added stupidly.
"I did, but things didn't work out." How she must pity him and his schoolboy crush. At least she was being kind about it.
"I'm glad. Not glad that things didn't work out there," he added in a hurry, "just glad that it brought you back here." He could swear he was getting dumber by the second.
"You want Imperial Abstracts."
Taylor gladly grasped the change in topic. "Great! What are those, and where do I find them?"
She led him to the extensive reference section of the library, chatting as they went. She was employed to copy official city records for the library and took shifts at various desks for variety. She was only in town for another month, and then she was moving on to the remote province of Temer for a while. Her prattle served its purpose, buying time until his head came out of the clouds and he could be more himself.
The Imperial Abstracts were tabulated statistics based on the twelve-year census and other sources. A multitude of charts and graphs were divided into volumes. The Magics volume contained information about skills, classes, and everything else magical that could be counted. Taylor hadn't realized that summoners and users of force magic were so rare, or that so many people worked in manufacturing magical devices.
The data he wanted was in Figure 107: Occurrences of Primary and Secondary Attributes and Their Strengths. There was a lot of interesting information packed into those two pages. A moderately strong water magician was likely to have moderate earth magic. But a powerful water magician was more likely to have weak healing magic as their secondary attribute. The patterns were plain to see, and Taylor could understand how theorists came up with the explanations they did. The data was evidence of something, he was sure. Taylor had discounted the notion of attributes because he could use such a broad range of magic, but maybe he only discounted attributes because they had so little effect on him. To most people, they mattered a great deal. He needed to take the topic more seriously for a while.
"Hello? Aarden to Bilius. Please write home!"
"It's Taylor now. The colonel disowned me."
"Oh, Billy! I'm sorry!"
"It's fine," he huffed, "I'm better off on my own."
"Nobody is better off on their own." Concerned, upturned tones decorated her speech. That was the beauty of Arcaic: one could inflect contradictory mood and words for irony, or match mood and words for sincerity. The same was true of any language, but Arcaic was the only one Taylor knew of that formally systematized emotive tones.
"I'm not alone alone," he reassured her. "I have a loyal staff, and I adopted a younger brother. Can I copy this?"
"Of course." She watched him work his copying spell, all the way down to the footnotes, with a bemused smile on her pretty face.
"Come have dinner at my house tonight. We'll set up a screen, and you can enjoy a little company. They'd love to see you again!"
Her "house" was an entire apartment building given over to a single clan of arcs, most of them women and children. The women would fuss over him, the children would keep time to ensure he didn't oversaturate the room with his curse between breaks, and the men would regale him with amateur music and fanciful stories. Despite periodic rest periods behind a privacy screen, by the end of it all, he'd be mentally exhausted from social exercise.
"I'd love to."
