Business opportunity

I’ve been searching for this bard all morning. My feet hurt. My patience is down to scraps. And Viktor—if that’s even his real name—is still nowhere to be found.

I thought it would be easy. Find the man who can’t stop singing. Ask a few questions. Offer a clever proposal. Done.

Instead, every time I ask where Viktor the bard is, someone sends me to a different inn. Or a different market square. Or—worse—tells me they “saw him yesterday,” as if that helps at all. I’ve walked half the city at this point, and I’m starting to feel like I’m the punchline of someone else's story.

The fact that I don’t know this city well doesn’t help. And the signs? Barely helpful. Half of them are faded, and the other half assume you already know where you’re going. Which, clearly, I don’t.

I sigh and adjust the veil. It’s itchy. Everything is itchy. Too many layers. Too many eyes.

At least Nate has a better task. I left him with an exercise—sit by the window downstairs, focus on the street, try to feel the people as they pass. Not literally, obviously. Just sense them. Through the Presence. Through the noise.

The most important part was for him not to freak out again. If he can manage that, he might start learning to recognize patterns. Guess how many people walk by. Feel the flow of movement without drowning in it.

It’s Nate, so I’m sure he’s doing fine. Overthinking every moment, probably taking mental notes. Maybe inventing some internal ranking system for how distracting everyone is. But at least he’s safe. And focused.

Meanwhile, I’m spiraling.

I’ve been in every major inn I could find. Some so fancy I half-expected to be thrown out just for walking through the door. Some so grimy I almost turned back. Still no bard. Just loud patrons, bad music, and worse air.

It’s like the man is hiding on purpose.

Wouldn’t that be something? What if he knows I’m looking for him? What if someone saw me asking around and passed word along? Now he’s ducking around corners and slipping out back doors like he’s some kind of underground legend instead of a singing ego in boots.

I shake my head.

One clue left. One more name, one more inn. To no one’s surprise, it’s yet another place to drink and sleep.

I’ve come to learn that this city has an unnatural number of inns. More than any place I’ve ever heard of. Maybe it has something to do with being a trade hub. It pulls in travelers from everywhere. Merchants, pilgrims, drunks, nobles, smugglers. They all need beds, and there are plenty to go around.

Maybe that’s why our own inn is so quiet all the time. Too much competition. Not enough effort from the innkeeper, either.

I find the place. It’s older—worn shutters, chipped sign—but the kind of worn that says “people pass through here often.” Lived-in, not forgotten.

I don’t feel like walking in. I’ve smelled enough sour ale and burned meat for one day.

So instead, I wait.

There’s a narrow alley beside the building. Cool shade, a break from the sun. I lean against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to look like someone up to no good. Which I am, in a way. Hunting down a bard like it’s some sort of mission.

But someone has to bring money home.

And if stories from another world are what we’ve got… then I’m going to make sure they’re worth something.

Come on, Viktor. Show your loud, smug face already.

I tuck a loose strand of hair under the edge of the veil and wait.

###

Standing here with nothing to do gives me the rare luxury of watching. People pass like eddies in a stream—faster, louder, more restless than the ones back home. Everyone here walks like they’re late for something or running from something. Maybe both.

At least we don’t look out of place.

The clothes we had made back in the village—tailored enough to draw no pity, but plain enough not to draw a blade—seem to fit this city better than I expected. We don’t look like beggars, and we certainly don’t pass for nobles. Somewhere in between. Comfortably ambiguous. Maybe even edging toward “merchant-class respectable,” if you don’t stare too long.

Is that what the old woman from the food line thought we were? One of those modest couples with just enough coin to be irritating? Hm.

And about the veil…

I’d been cursing it all day—too hot, too tight, too easy to catch on every wind-blown corner. But now, standing still, I count a few other women wearing the same thing. Not many, but enough.

That’s good. At least I’m not the only one baking under a piece of cloth just to blend in. It’s not exactly fashion, but it’s clearly not unheard of either. If the goal was to look unremarkable, then we’re doing well. Even if it makes me itch.

Still. All the disguises in the world won’t help if we draw the wrong kind of attention.

And lately, attention is everywhere.

There are more soldiers than I expected—more than there were when we first arrived. They don’t travel in packs, just lone men here and there. Red tabards, too clean. Too stiff. And always watching.

They stand out. Maybe it’s the crimson color. Maybe it’s the way they don’t interact with anyone—just cut through the streets like knives looking for something soft.

They might be Lord Rhenault’s. The uniforms are too polished to belong to any common city watch. That would explain the color. And the arrogance.

If they are his… we’ll need to tread more carefully. People are getting nervous. You can feel it in the way they walk, the way they talk faster in crowds. Like everyone’s trying not to be the first one to say something dangerous out loud.

And it’s not just nerves. It’s hunger.

In the inns I’ve visited, I noticed it—subtle at first, but building. The tavern keeps muttering apologies. The guests grumble, loudly. Some even shout. People are angry they can’t buy bread. Not the fancy loaves. Just bread.

The richer inns? They’ve stopped selling it altogether. Not because they ran out, but because they’re scared. That means the rumors are spreading faster than I thought. And if even the well-fed are worried about the church’s grain… things are worse than we imagined.

Some of the darker places, the ones tucked behind alleys and smelling of mold, still serve it. But there’s a desperation in those places—like they know they’re gambling with their customers' lives. Or don’t care.

The crisis is building. We’re watching a city begin to crack from the inside.

And all we wanted to do was trade some wool.

One crisis at a time...

Right now, we need money. And we need to get Nate working again—something real, something productive. Something that helps him stop freaking out.

That’s why I’m here. Chasing a bard through half the city. Who would’ve thought that would be the stable choice in all this mess?

My back’s starting to ache from standing too long. The alley is narrow and cool, but the air still carries the stench of vinegar from someone’s discarded lunch. I shift my weight, stretch my fingers, and peer out toward the inn entrance.

Movement.

Someone’s finally coming out.

I straighten, heart picking up a little. This could be him. Could be—

Come on, Viktor. Time to earn your coin.

###

That strange, lumpy shape on his back—half harp, half sack of laundry—yep. That’s got to be him.

The bard.

So now we begin: tailing a bard through the city like I’m some sort of petty informant.

Great.

How do I even approach him without scaring him off? Or worse—drawing a crowd?

Do I give him some money first? Compliment his boots? I really should have thought this through.

I follow at a careful distance, pretending to admire shop windows. Keep to the edges, match his pace, eyes on his shoulders. He doesn’t walk in a straight line—he kind of... bounces, like he’s narrating his own steps in rhythm.

Focus.

We’ve moved off the main road, thankfully. The noise thins out. Fewer people. A narrow street branching toward what looks like a carpenter’s quarter. Maybe now’s my chance—quiet enough to talk without eavesdropping, public enough that he won’t scream and bolt.

I step forward—

“HEY, LADY!”

He spins.

I freeze.

“What’s your problem?!” he blurts, eyes wide, voice shrill enough to bounce off the bricks. “Why are you following me?!”

Damn. So he knew.

Quick—don’t panic.

“No, no problem!” I say too fast, raising both hands slightly like I’m trying to surrender.

“Then why are you following me?” he demands, squinting. “Is this a setup? Are you trying to rob me? Is this some kind of test?”

Test? Rob him? Seriously?

The audacity.

I could rob him if I wanted to… But I’m trying not to be a criminal right now, thank you very much.

Focus.

Instead of answering, I reach into my satchel and pull out the folded page I prepared yesterday. Notes. A rough outline of the story Nate told me.

I offer it to him silently.

“What is this?” he snaps, eyeing the page like it might explode.

“Just—please. Read it,” I say. It’s not begging, not exactly. But it’s close.

He rolls his eyes, snatches the paper, and grumbles something under his breath as he unfolds it.

“I swear if this is some kind of spell or soup recipe—”

Then he stops.

Mid-sentence.

His eyes move across the paper fast. Too fast.

Then:

“…Wait. Is this a song? Or a play? No, no—wait, it’s a story. Maybe? Is this a draft? Are you pitching me a draft right now?!”

His voice jumps a full octave on “draft.”

“Does it look interesting?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate.

He stares at the paper, then at me, then back at the paper.

“‘Two houses alike in dignity…’ Oh, that’s good. Oh, that’s really good. Wait—wait—‘star-crossed’?! Who wrote that?! Who wrote this!?”

“My… husband,” I say, careful with the word. “He’s not from here. But the stories in his head are worth more than wool, I think.”

The bard gasps like he just found the crown jewels in a chamber pot.

“This is—this is good. I mean, it needs work. It’s wordy. But this—this could sing. With the right adjustments—local accents, change the town names, maybe throw in a juggler…”

He trails off, eyes darting around like he’s already rewriting it in his mind.

He’s hooked.

I can see it.

Time to reel him in.

“So,” I ask, cool again, arms crossed, veil fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Do you want more?”

His head snaps up.

“More?”

“Stories like this. We have dozens. Maybe more. But if you want them, we’ll need to work something out.”

He grins. And it’s the grin of a man who’s already halfway to planning a five-act tragedy with a live duck as a side character.

“Io,” I say, extending my hand. “You’ll be working with me.”

He takes it, practically vibrating.

“Viktor. And you, mystery woman, just made my week.”

###

I honestly can’t tell if picking this man was the best decision I’ve ever made… or the worst.

Viktor cannot—physically cannot—shut up.

We’ve been walking for a good while now, and he hasn’t stopped talking for even a breath. Story after story, rant after rant. It’s like pulling the cork from a wine barrel and forgetting how to plug it again.

At least Nate knows when to stay quiet. Viktor? He talks like he’s afraid silence might catch up and strangle him if he gives it the chance.

Still… at least I’m learning something.

Apparently, he’s been looking for new material for a while now. Coming to him with the Romeo and Juliet draft wasn’t just lucky—it was a miracle in his eyes.

Maybe that’s a good omen. Or a bad one. Haven’t decided yet.

“…and after that,” Viktor barrels on, gesticulating wildly as we weave through the narrower streets, “they told me to leave! Because apparently seventeen repeats of the same ballad is enough for one night!”

He grins like he finds his own suffering hilarious.

I blink at him.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” I say slowly, because clearly someone needs to ask, “why do you talk so much?”

He throws his arms wide like I asked him why the sun shines.

“Ahhh, who knows? Maybe I’m compensating for my years in the monastery!”

Monastery?

I almost stumble.

By the minute, this man gets stranger… or maybe just more interesting. I haven’t decided yet. It's honestly refreshing in a way—to talk to someone so unfiltered.

But still—monastery?

He catches my expression immediately.

“Ahh! I see it! That look!” He points at me dramatically. “You’re wondering what someone like me was doing in a monastery, right?”

I don't answer, but I must have made a face. A very obvious face.

He nods to himself like he’s just won a prize.

“Well,” Viktor says, leaning closer like he’s sharing some grand secret, “my parents couldn’t feed all of us. So, as the youngest, I got packed off to the monks. Free meals, free roof. Lucky me, right?”

He chuckles, but there’s an edge there. Something sharp under all the laughter.

“And years of staying quiet because of their ‘holy silence’ rules?” He waves a hand dramatically. “Yeah, maybe that’s why I am like this now.”

He taps the side of his head with two fingers. Maybe.

At least he’s self-aware.

And oddly… honest.

I tuck that information away. Viktor might be a lot of things—loud, restless, a little ridiculous—but he’s not hiding who he is. That counts for something.

“And we’re here!” he says suddenly, throwing his hands up like he’s announcing the arrival of royalty.

I blink up at the building.

It’s not an inn. It’s a small house—simple, but sturdy. We’ve walked far enough from the city’s center that the noise has faded, and the buildings are closer, smaller, more lived-in. Cheaper land, probably. But still, being able to afford a place here says something about his skills.

Maybe choosing him was the right call after all.

He pushes the door open with a dramatic bow and gestures me inside.

The interior is... surprisingly normal. Worn but clean. A fireplace with a cracked kettle hanging above it. Shelves cluttered with rolled parchments and old instruments.

He waves me toward a wooden table in the center of the room.

“Sit, sit! The stage is yours, my lady!” he says, practically bouncing on his heels.

I take a seat, feeling the chair wobble slightly under me.

Viktor flops into the seat across from me, arms sprawling wide across the tabletop like he might fall asleep mid-conversation.

“So,” he says, suddenly sharper, his voice dropping into something closer to business. “What exactly do you want to sell me?”

Finally.

We can get to work.

###

Better keep the story simple. Just as Nate and I planned.

I sit across from Viktor, folding my hands neatly on the table. He’s fidgeting, bouncing his foot like he’s keeping rhythm with some song only he can hear.

Deep breath, Io. You’ve handled worse merchants than this.

"As I said earlier," I start, keeping my voice calm, "my husband has a good mind for making up stories. He’s just... not that handy when it comes to writing them down. And he can’t sing, I think." Not that we’ve tested that theory yet. Maybe one day he’ll surprise me.

Viktor leans forward, eager. "So the stories—you want me to buy them? And I can use them however I want?"

"You can turn them into ballads, poems, plays—whatever suits you," I say, steady.

His brow furrows. "Change names? Towns? Endings?"

"Change whatever you like," I confirm. "As long as it starts from the story he gives you, there won’t be a problem." Not like Nate has any real claim to these stories anyway…

Viktor leans back, rubbing his chin theatrically.
"Lady—"

"Io," I cut in.
If he calls me ‘Mrs.’, I might scream. He and such titles don’t fit together.

"Yes, yes, Io," he says, waving a hand. "This sounds... too perfect. No restrictions? It’s mine to twist and mold? What's the catch?"

Good. He has more brains than he lets on.

"There would be two payments," I explain carefully.

Viktor perks up, suspicion blooming.

"First," I continue, "you pay us a fee when we deliver you the complete story."

He nods slowly. "Fair."

"And second," I say, sharper now, "you pay us a small amount for each performance based on our stories. For one year."

His mouth falls open.
"That doesn't sound very fair!"

"It’s only for a year," I add. "After that, the story is completely yours. Free to use as you like."

It was Nate’s idea—he called it ‘royalties.’ Motivates Viktor to actually promote the stories, to keep them popular. Clever.

Viktor slouches down in his chair, muttering something about ‘wolves in merchant’s clothing.’

I press on. "It also motivates us to keep supplying you with new material. If you have a steady stream of fresh tales, your audience stays hungry."

He stays slouched, frowning at the table.

"And how," he finally says, squinting at me, "would you even know how often I perform them?"

Good point. I was ready for it.

"We wouldn’t," I admit smoothly. "But... I think once you see the success these stories bring you, you’ll be more interested in keeping us happy than cheating us."

I leave it at that. I’m not about to beg.

Besides—pride is something every bard has too much of. If Viktor's as ambitious as he seems, he won’t want to burn a bridge to a new well of tales no one else has.

Viktor shifts, looking between me and the paper with the rough draft. His fingers tap against the tabletop in a quick, uneven rhythm. Thinking. Calculating.

"Assuming I agree," he says at last, "do we make a contract?"

Without a word, I pull the contract out of my bag and slide it across to him.

His eyebrows shoot up.

"You were ready for this?"

"Of course," I say, keeping my tone mild. "We don’t do sloppy business."

He reads the front page, lips moving slightly.

"You really believe in this, huh?" he mutters.

"You can always walk away," I say lightly. "But if you choose to buy, these are the terms."

He starts reading aloud, voice theatrical.
"Nathaniel and Io Kesler agree to the following...’ Wait."

He looks up, surprised.
"You added your name? To your husband’s contract?"

"Of course," I say, a little sharper than I meant to.

He raises an eyebrow. "You don’t see that often."

I shift in my seat.
"Well... I’m very... important to him."

Why did I say that?! Heat creeps up my neck.

Focus, Io.

He hums thoughtfully, then chuckles. "Good for you."

I nod stiffly. Moving on.

"We could store a copy in the church archives too. To make it official." Perfect. That could give me an excuse to poke around those records and learn something useful…

"Ugh, but the priests…” Viktor winces.

“I would be happy to go!” A little less obvious enthusiasm couldn’t hurt but the opportunity is too good to pass on.

“Fine, if you want to suffer through that, be my guest."

He reads through the contract a second time, more carefully this time. I stay quiet, giving him space. It’s a good sign. No man reads something twice unless he’s seriously considering it.

Finally, he signs.

His signature is wild and sprawling—just like him.

"After I file the copy at the church, I’ll deliver your first full story," I say, tucking our copy of the contract safely away.

He grins.
"I can’t wait to turn these into something brilliant."

Good. Now it’s his turn to fill my purse.

"You can find me here if you need anything," he says, pointing at the worn house around him.

I stand, adjusting my bag.

"Then I’ll be going—"

"Wait!" Viktor pipes up. "Just don’t go right out the front."

I blink. "Why?"

He grimaces.
"People have been... defecating in the streets."

I just stare at him.

"I know, I know!" he says, throwing up his hands. "Don’t ask me why! It’s something new and weird. We are not some savages!"

This city keeps finding new ways to disgust me.

I sigh, give him a nod, and step carefully around the front alley, keeping to the cleaner paths.

As I walk back toward the inn, the weight of the signed contract settles nicely into my satchel.

Finally, a real victory.

Maybe yesterday’s chaos was worth it after all.