Not All That Glitters Is Gold; You Can Go on Living

Furar Mokar looked over his shop as he had every day since the doors first opened two terms prior. The morning sun brimmed over the bay horizon and cast a triumphant glow as his wispy beard creased up in a smile. He always savored it. “Make sure you savor the fruits of every success until there is no more,” his Master had always said. Wise words, as merchants are quick to move on to the next deal, never enjoying their triumphs unless they made a specific effort.

He entered the shop where not one, but two store attendants prepared for the day’s trading. Furar had always liked the idea of having diverse offerings for sale, and his shop reflected this, dealing in nothing in particular, but buying and selling anything of value. Port Remis was a port city, and so a lot of interesting items passed through, and a lot of sailors and merchants passed through with fat wallets from recent voyages. On the flip side of the spectrum, fortunes were lost in failed endeavors, and those same sailors could squander away a fortune and find themselves in a financial pinch. These people provided the inventory.

Just the other day, a man had come through and sold his teeth; well, his golden ones anyway. True, not a lot of buyers harbored an interest in golden dentistry that had previously occupied someone else’s mouth, but that was why it presented such a good deal. Nobody would give you the value of the gold, but with the right equipment, you could easily melt it down and redeem its true value. And if one drove a hard bargain, it would only sweeten the payout.

He climbed the stairs to the second story and opened the door to his office, a small, practical space, just the way he liked it. Asal Alaba might like the flamboyant approach, but Furar preferred to put a pragmatic face on his dealings. He lit an incense of lutous reed that gave off a sharp, pungent smell, as he took a seat behind his favored desk. Many couldn’t tolerate the odor, but he found it invigorating. To think that less than a year ago, he had achieved such success that he could never have foreseen.

Running into Asal Alaba right after his recent procurement of yutsuukitsuu juveniles had been a serendipitous boon. Furar instantly realized their value: intelligent magical creatures and still in the juvenile stage. They could probably be trained to be obedient companions. With the right instruction, they could be advantageous in any number of endeavors. And what wealthy noble, or even king, would pass on an opportunity to possess such a unique creature?

As luck would have it, Asal was a talkative man by nature, and it soon became clear he had divided interests. He wanted to sell off the choice acquisition to the nobles of Alocast, but would probably want for buyers of the rest of the yutsuukitsuu there, at least at a fair price—Alocasters were increasingly demanding higher and higher returns on investment. “The best way to be successful is to find what people need and give it to them.” More of his Master’s wise words. And so, he had offered to buy them from Asal, on credit, mind you; he hadn’t yet achieved success.

Asal Alaba found this agreeable, and they hammered out a contract. Of course, the contract was strict about failure of repayment, or rather, the interest rate would be impossible to surmount if something went wrong. But a merchant had to be willing to take risks, and it had paid off big time. His sole regret was that he could buy only three of the four, as someone had already purchased one. Well, that couldn’t be helped, and he had still done remarkably well.

And not only that, his current enterprise was fantastic. By his estimation, the shop will have paid for itself in less than a year. He should start thinking about how to expand, as any shrewd businessman would. It would be a waste of his talents to satisfy himself with just one shop. And who knows, at this rate, he could find himself offered a seat on the city council. To think he had accomplished so much as a man in his early twenties. True, he didn’t have a wife. Well, he would have several before—

He jumped as a crash sounded from below, followed by a yelp from one of the store clerks. Furar went on high alert. Was he getting robbed? He had picked out a safer part of the city for his shop, but as a lot of his patrons were of the common man, it didn’t have the same protections as the wealthiest areas of the city. Still, most crime here was clandestine as punishments were notoriously harsh.

“I’m calling the city gua—ACK!!” It sounded like someone had grabbed his other clerk by the neck and yanked him to the ground, crushing much valuable merchandise. This couldn’t stand! Did these brigands think they could destroy his property!? He reached over and pulled a cocked and loaded crossbow from inside his desk; he never believed he would need the thing, but as his Master always said, “Better safe than sorry.”

He debated whether he should go down and confront the scoundrel or hunker down, when the door creaked open. His heart caught in his throat as he looked on, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple and into his thin beard. He leveled the crossbow and prepared to fire. “Steady now,” he told himself. “You only have one shot.” But the door opened onto empty space. Had the door just swung open of its own accord? That was ridiculous! Doors don’t just—

“Where are children?” His head almost hit the ceiling, and inadvertently, he loosed the bolt, lodging it in the far wall. Spinning to see where the preternatural Caster words came from, he found a short person wearing all white, including a mask with... white animal-like ears? Oh...

“A yutsuukitsuu...” Even though he was operating strictly with his survival brain, it didn’t take an airship engineer to realize why she was here; they were intelligent after all. However, he wouldn’t give up his clients. That was just professional etiquette.

“Where are children!?” she repeated, but more forcibly. He could tell she was trying to be intimidating, but how could she be? Small of body, weak of voice, another scan of her revealed a sword at her waist, but it wasn’t drawn. Surely, this creature couldn’t be a threat.

“Remove yourself at—” Bang! He found his head bounced off the desk by unseen forces. Damn, he had forgotten about the telekinesis. Those pups had been mostly unable to use it, except for the one, and it wasn’t more than a novelty.

“Where are they?” That mask closed the distance until they were nose to nose. He found the terror returning, though her voice ruined the full effect. The kites didn’t talk at all, so perhaps speaking was unnatural to them? At any rate, it would take more than a roughing up to get him to talk. He had suffered through highwaymen on several occasions, and he had made it through; he would make it through this.

He sealed his lips and tried to hold fast to the desk so she couldn’t throw him around with that magic of hers. His clerks would have summoned the city guard by now. All he had to do was wait. To his surprise, she just stood there looking at him. She seemed confused. But that didn’t matter, as just then he heard a commotion coming from downstairs. Excellent. The Port Remis guard was always an exemplary force.

“Up here!” He shouted. That drew their attention, and they rushed up the stairs and burst into the room. Three broad-chested armed guards locked eyes onto the yutsuukitsuu. “Don’t be fooled by her small size; she has intrinsic magic.” Never hurt to give warning, but now that his ordeal was just about over, he couldn’t help but think it a waste. Perhaps if they managed to take her alive, he might persuade them to...

In the blink of an eye, the creature in white had shot forward and drawn her sword. The guards stood there stupefied, faces blank masks, until their upper and lower halves separated. She had done more than just draw her sword, and Furar became acutely aware that his pants had grown damp. The masked monstrosity turned back to him.

“Where are children?” In light of recent events, these words became considerably more menacing. That was it; she would find no more resistance here.

“I-I s-sold them,” he stuttered his words, feeling like one misstep and he would join the severed corpses on the floor.

“Where children?” She drifted closer, almost floating, sword held at her side. Sweat permeated his entire body now as he reared back from her.

“U-Umm... Brazcavan! Sultan Brazcavan!” She continued to approach until she was nearly on top of him. It was over. He was sure of it. But no, she only produced a folded piece of parchment, which unfolded to reveal a detailed map.

“Where on map?” She placed it on the desk and looked at him with those cold, empty eyes, like windows into the void. How had he missed it before?

“Umm...” It took effort, but he turned his eyes away from the terror before him and looked at the map. “There, in Pho.” He pointed to a place on the map. Creeping to his side, she peered at the spot.

“Who has?”

“S-Sultan Brazcavan.”

“All four?” she asked. He hesitated.

“N-No... Just the one.” Furar was sure she wouldn’t like that answer, but the creature maintained its strange monotone speech.

“Where other three?”

“I-I don’t know!” An honest answer; it was none of his business where his merchandise ended up. Now he thought about revising that policy, if he survived. The hand gripping the sword tightened, and his heart tried to tear itself from his chest. Involuntarily, his head drifted to the bodies of the slain guards. One would like to call it a grizzly sight, but all things considered, other than the bowels spilling out, the corpses were in pristine condition.

That mortified him, well, more so. The mask had followed his gaze, and even worse, an idea seemed to have occurred to its master. He felt the sword slide unseen against his neck.

“Were... Are... Children?” She asked again.

“I don’t...” he felt the faintest nip of blade cut into flesh, so fine that it didn’t actually breach the skin, but he felt the sword slide a good several inches. Such control. “H-here!” He pointed, struggling to keep from cutting himself. “The Magocracy of Londane!”

Looking over at the map, “Where in Mag…crasie of Lon…dane?”

“I don’t know...” He started feeling that he should give her something that would allow him to keep his head. “It was done through a broker. I don’t ask questions. His name is Momolrick, clean-shaven man, austere expression. Umm... He wore a big hat?” He dug for anything he could think of.

The yutsuukitsuu looked down, but continued to hold the sword to his neck. But then she looked up, and a piece of paper and pen slid across the desk, stopping right next to him.

“Write it,” she said. He stared, confused.

“…Write it?”

“Write what you said.” Did she want him to take notes? Somehow, that didn’t seem congruent with the image of a monster.

“I... don’t think I can with this sword on my neck.” She tilted her head, appearing to consider, and then withdrew it. He heaved a heavy sigh of relief, but meeting her eyes... Or eye slits, he went to work writing what he had said.

“Where other one?” She said after he finished writing.

“S-she was bought by a hozenlo—Ouf!” It felt like a punch landed in his gut. Grabbing his belly, “What did I say?”

Ignoring the question, the masked figure drifted closer. “Where?”

“I-I don’t know! Hozenlo are strange; they usually stay in the Gelcic Republic. If one is out here, who knows where he went.” And that was the Halls’s honest truth. He never did much care for trading with their kind, too unorthodox, but their money was just as good as anyone else’s, assuming they were bartering in money and not sprockets or lubricating oil. Of course, that didn’t even compare to the time one had tried to pass off used parchment as payment.

“Name?”

“I don’t know.” He could see her growing frustrated with this repeated answer; he’d best stop using it. “He is a hozenlo; nobody can remember those risibly long names!” His gaze met the mask. “Galgra… something or other. Short fellow...” Obviously, that wasn’t much of a description, but that was all he remembered about him. “Had a pointy beard, maybe?”

“And last one?”

“Last one? Eeek!” The tip of her sword touched the base of his chin. “I only had three! I swear! Asal Alaba sold the fourth one to somebody else!”

A moment passed. Was she deciding whether she would kill him? Hell, chances were good she would kill him, regardless. She certainly looked the part. At last, she pointed to the paper. He caught her meaning and wrote.

Afterwards, she folded the newly written note and tucked it away with the map and then stared at him for a long while. He didn’t move. Maybe he could think of something to pacify her? Finally, she turned her head and raised the sword high above her. Marathaa preserve us! She would kill him after all! The sword came crashing down, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass assaulted his ears. He had not expected death to sound like this. In fact, he hadn’t expected death to sound like anything, and certainly not splitting wood.

Wait... He opened his eyes to find that he was still very much alive. The same could not be said for his master-crafted terry oak desk, which lay smashed into two pieces; the only luxury item he had allowed himself, costing no small amount. As for the masked creature, she was nowhere to be seen, but judging by the smashed-out window, she probably left via that route. He heard a commotion from downstairs—it sounded like more guards, judging by the shouts. Of course they would show up now... He looked over to the three slain guardsmen. Or maybe it was for the best. It would be hard enough to recover from three dead guards, let alone more. The local custom was to compensate the families of slain guards who had died in your defense, and while it wasn’t exactly a law, failure to do so would be catastrophic for business, and so, it might as well be law.

By the end of the day, Furar Mokar had totaled the extensive damage: two injured clerks, damaged merchandise—though thankfully, it remained mostly untouched—a broken window, a smashed desk, and three dead guards’ families to pay. That last one would hurt. All said, he would have to revise his shop’s break-even day to two years.