Chapter 76: The Patron's Gambit
The night at The Grumbling Gryphon passed without bloodshed, but not without tension. I'd spent half of it by the window of our rented room, staring into the silver-tinged darkness of the courtyard, my frayed Ki sense stretched thin, trying to filter the city's nocturnal hum from any hint of malicious intent. The feeling of being watched had faded to a dull, persistent itch between my shoulder blades, but it was enough to keep sleep at bay. Briza, in the adjacent room, had been just as restless; I'd heard the floorboards creak with her pacing long into the night.
Morning brought a thin, grey light and the resumption of awkward silence. We gathered in the common room for a breakfast of porridge and hard bread. Laron, ever the optimist, tried to fill the quiet with nervous chatter about Evander's renowned taste. Briza responded in monosyllables, her focus on the inn's entrance, her body coiled like a spring. I just ate, the phantom weight of my lost sword a constant, expensive reminder of my own stupidity.
The Patron's estate was not what I expected. Nestled in the quieter, elevated district of Cartographer's Lane, it was a testament to understated wealth. No gaudy statues or towering walls, just a two-story manor of pale sandstone and dark, polished wood, surrounded by a immaculate garden of sculpted hedges and whispering, wind-chime flowers. It spoke of money so old and secure it no longer felt the need to shout.
A servant in simple but impeccably tailored linens met us at the door, his expression neutral. He led us through a hallway adorned with a single, breathtaking tapestry that depicted the history of Silveridge in shimmering thread, and into a sun-drenched study.
Patron Evander or who I assumed was him, stood as we entered, and my first impression was of a predator sheathed in silk. He was a man of late middle age, with sharp, intelligent features and silver-grey hair swept back from a high forehead. He wore a deep blue robe that seemed to drink the light, and his smile was a perfect, practiced curve of welcome that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Laron," he said, his voice a warm, resonant baritone. "It is a relief to see you arrived safely. The roads are… uncertain, of late. My apologies I couldn't meet you yesterday." His gaze slid over Briza's battered armor and my own weaponless state with a flicker of assessment before returning to the rabbit demihuman. "And these are your companions?"
"Y-yes, Patron!" Laron stammered, bowing slightly. "This is Briza, my personal guard. And this is Kaizen, the adventurer hired from the Torak guild for the journey. We would not be here without him."
Evander's eyes settled on me, and I felt the weight of his attention like a physical pressure. "Kaizen. Laron's message was sparse on details, but he implied your intervention was… dramatic. You have my thanks for ensuring my investment arrived safely." He gestured to a sitting area arranged around a low table of polished river stone. "Please, sit. Let us discuss the future."
We sat. Evander took his time, pouring a pale, fragrant tea from a porcelain pot into four delicate cups. The ritual was calm, deliberate, designed to put us at ease. It had the opposite effect on me.
"The Stonemist tapestries are as promised," he began, addressing Laron. "The singing stones… their melody is fainter than I had hoped, but authentic. You have done well." He took a sip of tea. "But it is the other matter Laron hinted at in his letter that truly piques my interest. He spoke of a new form of storytelling. A… 'picture book,' brought to life with a tool of Tartaros."
So, Laron had written ahead. The clever little rabbit had been building anticipation.
Laron, emboldened, launched into an effusive explanation, pulling the velvet case from his pack. He spoke of the magical scribe, of its ability to translate thought into perfect imagery. And then, he produced the parchment.
Not the drawing of our campfire. He showed Evander the one I had made.
The terrifying, perfect image of Frieza, rising from the waters of Namek, his body a map of wounds, his face a mask of cosmic malice, was laid upon the river-stone table.
Evander's polished composure cracked. His eyes widened, his breath caught. He leaned forward, his fingers hovering over the page as if afraid to touch it, lest the monster within reach out and drag him in.
"By the abyss…" he whispered, the words devoid of their earlier warmth, filled instead with a raw, hungry awe. "What… what is this? This is not of Cartaros. This style… the emotion, the sheer power…" He finally looked up at me, his gaze sharp and penetrating. "Laron said this came from your mind. A story you knew."
"It's a character from a tale where warriors can shatter continents with their will," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "A story of gods and monsters."
He stared at me for a long, silent moment, and I saw the shrewd calculator behind the art lover's mask. He wasn't just seeing a fascinating image; he was seeing a new form of leverage, a new kind of weapon for his collection.
"This… changes things," he said slowly, leaning back and steepling his fingers. "This is not mere art. This is a concept. A virus of an idea." He looked from the drawing to me. "I want it. I want the story. I want the exclusive rights to produce and distribute this… this 'picture book.' I will fund the project. I will provide the materials, the security, the distribution network. You will create. In return, you will receive a generous one-time payment for the story and a… five percent royalty on net profits."
The air went out of the room. Laron looked like he'd been struck. Briza, who had been watching the exchange with detached interest, let out a soft, derisive snort.
I didn't react outwardly, but inside, I was laughing. A one-time payment and five percent? For the exclusive rights to Dragon Ball? He might as well have offered me a shiny rock for the deed to Manhattan.
"That's not a partnership, Patron," I said, my voice flat and calm. "That's indentured servitude with extra steps. You're not buying a tapestry; you're trying to buy the loom, the weaver, and the concept of thread."
Evander's smile tightened. "I am assuming all the risk. The market for such a thing is unknown. I am offering you a fortune for a mere idea."
"You're offering a pittance for a new medium," I countered, leaning forward slightly. "You saw that drawing. You felt it. You know this isn't a 'mere idea.' This is the key to a vault you didn't even know existed. I'm not a naïve artist you can bully. I'm the only one who can open that vault." I met his gaze squarely. "Here are my terms. We form a partnership. A three-way split: Laron, for the tool and his business acumen. Myself, for the stories and creative direction. And you, Patron, for your distribution and capital. Thirty-three percent each. We own it together."
Laron made a small, choked sound. Evander's smile vanished entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. The friendly patron was gone, and the ruthless businessman was laid bare.
"Preposterous," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "You bring me a single drawing and demand an equal share of an empire that does not yet exist?"
"I'm not demanding a share of an empire," I said, a slow, confident smile spreading across my own face. "I'm offering you a key to help build one. My way, or the highway. I'm not demanding a share of an empire," I said, a slow, confident smile spreading across my own face. "I'm offering you the cornerstone to build one. My way, or I walk."
"And do what?" Evander countered, a hint of condescension returning. "Take your drawing to the other stuffy galleries? They would not understand what they are seeing. They lack the vision."
"I wasn't thinking of a gallery," I said, my voice dropping to match his. "A city like this, a trade hub? It doesn't just have art patrons. It has underworld bosses. Gambling den owners. People who make their money on spectacle and novelty. They wouldn't just see a story; they'd see a new way to control crowds, to create legends in their fighting pits, to sell a sensation no one else has." I leaned forward, my gaze locked on his. "I'm sure one of them would be very interested. And they'd probably offer me a much better deal just to spite a rival like you."
The silence that fell was heavier than any that had come before. We were no longer discussing art. We were negotiating a treaty in a war he hadn't known he was fighting. And for the first time, Patron Evander was looking at me not as a hired sword or a curious artist, but as a potential, and very dangerous, equal.
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