Chapter 22 — Gold and Ink
The shop was quiet — almost eerily so.
Dozens of clocks filled the walls, their ticking gears and pendulums overlapping in hypnotic rhythm, creating a soft metallic symphony that filled the space like a mechanical lullaby.
"Ancient wyrmling bones, you say?"
At the back of the shop, an elderly man with silver-gray hair and a clean-shaven, porcelain face leaned over the counter.
A single monocle perched on his left eye as he carefully rotated a thin rib bone between his fingers, examining it as though it were a priceless relic.
He turned it over several times, eyes narrowed, expression grave.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, shook his head, and looked up at the young man standing before him.
"A pity," he said. "A juvenile specimen. Malformed at birth. Poor little beast — seems it had osteoporosis while it was alive."
Charles blinked. "…Dragons can get osteoporosis?"
He was standing inside No. 23 Martin Street, the address Elliot had given him. He had expected a clandestine guild hall, or perhaps a hidden black-market bazaar — not… a clock shop.
Of course, as he soon learned, the store's façade was only a disguise.
Behind the gears and glass faces, this place served as a meeting point for practitioners — the spellcasters and artificers of Pita City — a quiet hub for discreet trade and whispered exchange.
Unfortunately, Charles was still an outsider. Without the Church's sanction, he wasn't permitted to enter the inner chambers.
Still, Elliot's note gave him the right to negotiate — and gold was a language everyone spoke.
"Dragon?" the old man repeated, glancing again at the bone. "Are you certain this came from a wyrm hatchling?"
"Positive," Charles said without hesitation. "The rest of the remains were a full, intact set. Unless some dog snuck in and swapped them out, there's no mistake."
The old man nodded thoughtfully, then began rummaging through the counter. He retrieved several glass vials, a mortar and pestle, and a handful of dried herbs that he ground into powder. Mixing them together, he produced a dark blue liquid, which he carefully dripped onto the bone's surface.
A faint sizzle followed —
Ssshhh—
Blue vapor rose like steam from a hot forge. The old man leaned forward, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he analyzed the scent.
After a moment, he straightened. "Indeed… draconic traces. Fire-breather type. But most of the dragonflame essence has already dissipated."
He smacked his lips regretfully. "If the resonance were stronger, I could've doubled the price."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "So what's it worth now?"
The man scratched his chin, considering. "A pound for ten sovereigns. Fair enough?"
Charles did some quick mental math.
A pound — roughly half a kilo.
Ten gold sovereigns — about the same as a tenth of a countryside estate.
In simpler terms, one bone could pay his new cook's three months of wages.
And the pile on the table weighed at least twenty pounds.
He couldn't tell if the offer was fair or not — but for something he'd practically dug out of a pile of corpses, it was more than generous.
"I'll take it," he said.
The old man nodded, brisk and businesslike. "Twenty-seven pounds, fifteen guises. Let's call it twenty-eight even."
He ducked behind the counter, metal clinking and coins jingling. After a moment, he returned and slid a heavy leather pouch across the table.
"There you go. Count it if you like."
Charles did — carefully. He wasn't foolish enough to take even a respectable merchant at his word.
When he finally tied the pouch shut, the weight in his hand made him exhale with relief. Ten years of wages, neatly packed in gold.
Elliot's lead had been worth it.
He tucked the pouch away and looked up. "Do you have anything here that I could actually use?"
The old man lifted his gaze, studying him closely. "You?" he said, stroking his chin. "Strictly speaking, you're not one of us. Normally, I wouldn't sell to outsiders. But…" He smirked faintly. "If the Church sent you, then perhaps this isn't a normal circumstance."
He turned, pacing toward the shelves stacked with odd trinkets — glass vials, rune stones, sealed books, and jars filled with glowing dust.
"Let me think…" he murmured. "Maybe I do have something for you."
The old clockmaker tapped his fingers on the counter, thinking. Then, with a faint grunt, he disappeared into the back room.
Charles waited, listening to the layered ticking of the clocks around him — hundreds of tiny gears marking time like a hundred patient hearts.
Moments later, the old man returned, carrying several thick, dust-covered books.
"This one's The Tragedy of Arkavia," he said, stacking them neatly on the counter. "This is Carol's Thirteen Principles of Spellcraft, and this one—" he tapped the cover of a dark crimson tome, "The Devil Belongs in Hell."
He pushed the books toward Charles with a knowing look. "These should be enough to get you started. The deeper theories won't help you yet. You'd only burn your fingers trying to grasp what you're not ready for."
Charles accepted the stack with both hands, eyes flickering across the embossed covers. The intricate sigils and arcane illustrations stirred something inside him — excitement, curiosity, the hunger of someone who had been fumbling in the dark and just found a lamp.
He'd already learned to cast spells, yes — but without any understanding of why they worked. Until now, he'd been no better than a blindfolded child playing with matches.
This, though… this was knowledge.
"How much?" he asked.
"Thirteen gold sovereigns," said the old man, his tone flat but his smile faintly amused. "Thank you for your business."
---
When Charles stepped back into the sunlit street, the weight of the books under his arm felt strangely reassuring.
His hired carriage was still waiting across the road, the driver lazily dozing with the reins in hand.
Charles climbed in and opened the book titled Carol's Thirteen Principles of Spellcraft. He'd barely gotten through the introduction before something outside the window caught his eye — a signboard across the street.
"Stop the carriage," he said suddenly. "I almost forgot something."
The driver nodded without complaint. The fee was by the hour, and idle time was still billable.
Charles left the books on the seat, stepped down, and crossed the street.
---
The building before him was a narrow four-story structure of dark wood — weathered but sturdy, its balconies sealed with aging glass. It looked much like every other aging townhouse in the district, except for the sign that hung crookedly by the door:
"Little Imp Detective Agency."
Private investigators weren't exactly common in this era — and a licensed office was even rarer. Despite its worn appearance, the place carried an air of competence.
Pushing open the door, Charles found a young woman seated inside, sipping tea behind a modest desk. She looked up as the bell chimed.
"Apologies for the intrusion," Charles said politely. "Do you take investigation requests here?"
Business was clearly scarce; her eyes lit up immediately. She set down her teacup and stood. "Of course! Please, have a seat. What kind of investigation do you need?"
"Your services are confidential, I assume?" Charles asked first, his tone even. "You won't share your client's information."
"Absolutely," the woman said, pouring him a cup of tea. "Discretion is the foundation of our trade."
Charles nodded his thanks and took a small sip before leaning forward.
"I'd like you to look into recent events in Canyon Town, outside the city — both major and minor. And specifically," he paused, "I want everything you can find on Lady Rhine, former mistress of Black Maple Fort."
He hesitated briefly, then added, "Oh — and one more thing. There's a bald, middle-aged constable here in Pita City. I'd like his file as well."
The woman blinked at the oddly specific list but quickly composed herself, scribbling notes in neat, cursive strokes.
"No problem," she said, eyes glinting with professional focus. "We'll deliver a full report within the week."
Charles nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Good. I'll pay extra for speed — and silence."
As he turned to leave, the soft ticking of distant clocks echoed in his mind again — a reminder that in this world, time itself was the most valuable currency of all.
---