Chapter 7: The First Job

Chapter 7: The First Job

Rigar woke to a soft knock, followed by Liya’s voice through the door.

“Are you awake?”

He opened his eyes. Sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtain and fell across the copper badge on the table. He reached for it, then stopped as pain tightened in his forearm.

“I am now.”

“The innkeeper says breakfast won’t wait for us.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling his shoulder.

“Did he say that, or did you?”

“The eggs are getting cold. Finding someone to blame won’t help.”

Her footsteps receded, and he got up to look for his shirt.

Downstairs, he found her sitting before a split loaf and two plates. Her staff rested against the wall, and her hair was tied back. She had chosen a seat facing the stairs. As he approached, she pushed one of the plates toward him.

“I was about to charge you for guarding your breakfast.”

He sat and reached for the bread.

“Save that idea until we’ve earned something.”

He took out his remaining coins and counted them beneath the edge of the table. They had enough for their rooms and food for a few days, provided no other expenses arose. He returned the coins to their pouch before the innkeeper turned his way.

Liya was watching him.

“I’ll pay my own registration fee.”

“I know.”

She placed a piece of bread on her plate.

“And we should choose a job I can help with.”

He looked up at her.

“We’ll choose it together.”

She nodded and returned to her food.

The Hall was crowded when they arrived. A man stood near the entrance, scraping mud from his boot with the tip of a dagger, while another tried to convince a clerk that the torn ear in his hand belonged to a larger monster than she had recorded.

Rigar moved clear of the steps before looking toward the entrance. Liya noticed, but merely hid a smile.

At the registration desk, she answered the clerk’s questions and paid the fee from a small pouch she had kept in her bag. When asked about her specialty, she said, “Water magic. I know something about herbs, too.”

The clerk raised her quill.

“Can you treat wounds?”

“I can clean and bandage them. I can’t close them with magic.”

The clerk wrote down her answer, then handed her the form.

Rigar watched her sign her name. She pressed the quill a little too firmly, leaving a large bead of ink on the final letter. She waited for it to dry before carefully returning the paper.

Soon, a copper badge lay in her palm.

She turned it over and brushed her thumb across the number engraved on the back. When she looked up, she caught him watching.

“What?”

“Nothing. I did the same thing yesterday.”

She fastened it to her belt, but kept touching it as they walked toward the request board.

Rigar had to wait for two men to move away from the lower section. The notices there were less crowded: carrying crates to a warehouse, finding a stray mule, gathering herbs, and delivering letters to nearby villages.

He read a request for wagon guards, then found the line specifying Iron rank.

“There’s one for gathering river’s ear,” Liya said.

“I saw it.”

“I know that plant.”

He continued scanning the notices, so she found another.

“And this one is for cleaning a grain store.”

He turned to her.

“River’s ear sounds suitable.”

“That was a quick agreement.”

He pointed to the notice, and she leaned closer to read the details. Thirty undamaged leaves were required, cut with their stalks intact and carried in a well-ventilated basket. The gathering site was near the old eastern canal, and delivery was due before the Hall closed. The payment would cover both their rooms for the night, with something left for food.

Rigar lifted the notice from its nail.

At the desk, the clerk read the request number, then glanced at their badges.

“You’ll be doing this together?”

They nodded.

“One payment, divided between you. Both of you will receive credit once the plants are accepted.”

“Is the route safe?” Rigar asked.

“We’ve received no reports of danger at the gathering site. Stay on the bank marked on the map. This request does not involve entering any of the canal structures.”

She opened a ledger and recorded their names, then copied out a small sketch of the route. Before they left, she tapped the bottom of the notice.

“Thirty acceptable leaves. Dried or torn ones won’t count.”

Liya looked at Rigar.

“Did you hear that?”

“I haven’t gathered anything yet.”

“I’m telling you early.”

They bought a fresh bandage, an inexpensive basket, and some bread and cheese. At a tool shop, Rigar stopped before a coil of rope hanging from a peg.

He tested its thickness between his fingers and asked the price, then put it back.

“We might need it by the bank,” Liya said.

He looked from the basket in her hand to his coin pouch.

The shopkeeper took out a shorter length of rope with an old knot near one end.

“This one’s cheaper. Cut it from a wagon rope. Test it if you like.”

Rigar examined the knot and pulled the rope taut between his hands. His forearm hurt. He loosened his left grip, hoping Liya had not noticed, but she was already setting down the basket.

“Let me.”

She took the other end, and they pulled against each other. The knot held, and the fibers did not fray. He paid for it and secured it to his bag.

They left through the eastern gate among empty vegetable wagons. Botsdar’s walls remained behind them longer than Rigar expected, until trees began to hide some of the towers. They followed a dirt road between orchards, and eventually the canal appeared on their left, running low between banks of old stone.

Liya walked nearer the water, examining the plants growing in the cracks.

“What do they use this herb for?” he asked.

“Wound dressings. The woman who taught me used it, but we couldn’t find much near the village.”

He glanced at his forearm.

“Then we’ve chosen a customer who won’t run short of business.”

“If you keep your bandage clean, you might leave a few leaves for someone else.”

Farther along, he spotted a broad-leaved plant beneath a shrub. He bent, plucked a leaf, and held it up triumphantly.

“This one?”

Liya opened her mouth to answer, but he had already begun scratching his thumb.

She looked at his hand, then at the plant.

“No.”

“It looks like the drawing.”

“Turn it over.”

He did. Fine hairs covered its underside.

“River’s ear is smooth on both sides.”

He held the leaf away from him.

“You could have started with that detail.”

She took out the waterskin and poured a little water over his fingers.

“You could have asked before you picked it.”

He washed his hand and wiped it on his shirt, then stopped scratching when she raised an eyebrow.

They continued walking. After a few steps, she said, “At least they won’t deduct that one from our pay.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“Don’t touch your eyes.”

They found the landmark from the map at a narrow bridge. Three circles had been cut into its central stone. Beyond it, the canal curved along a slope, with patches of the herb growing at its edges.

Liya knelt and showed him a long, rounded leaf with pale veins running through it.

“This is it. Cut the stalk here, and leave the small ones.”

He cautiously touched its surface.

“Smooth.”

“You learn quickly.”

He drew his knife and knelt a short distance away. His first two cuts left too little stalk. Liya set one of the leaves aside and showed him how much to leave. He tried again, then silently held out the result.

She examined it and placed it in the basket.

“That one counts.”

He settled into the work. Whenever he reached for a more distant patch, the wound pulled beneath his bandage. He shifted his position and braced his elbow on his knee. He could fight goblins, yet cutting a leaf without damaging it required all this care.

The squeak of a wheel made him look up. On the road across the canal, a man pushed a cart stacked with empty crates, leaning into its weight. He gave no notice to Rigar’s sword or badge. He simply waved and asked whether his cart would fit across the bridge.

Rigar stood and judged its width.

“It will, but there’s a broken stone at the edge.”

He helped lift one wheel over the damaged section. The man thanked him and went on, and Rigar returned to his place.

Liya had gathered a small pile of leaves.

“How many do you have?”

He counted those before him.

“Nine.”

“I have twelve.”

“I helped with the cart.”

“I’ll ask them to put that in your record.”

He reached for another leaf to hide his smile, but its edge was blackened, so he let it fall back to the ground.

In the next patch, most of the leaves had curled inward, and the earth around their roots was cracked. Liya stood and walked along the canal. Rigar followed with the basket.

The water did not reach halfway up the dark stones lining the banks. A twig caught in a crack hung a hand’s breadth above the surface.

“It used to be higher,” he said.

Liya nodded, then pointed to a narrow irrigation channel branching toward an orchard. Only a thread of water ran through it.

A man carrying a shovel emerged from between the trees. He wiped his sweat with his sleeve when he saw them.

“If you’re here for the leaves, try the other side of the bend. These are starting to dry out.”

“Have they shut off the water?” Rigar asked.

“The flow’s been weak since yesterday. Two workers went to the old gate this morning. I thought they’d have it running again before this ditch dried up.”

He looked down at the channel and struck the mud with the tip of his shovel.

“Did you see them on the way? One carries a blue bag.”

Rigar shook his head.

The man gestured toward the slope.

“I’ll wait a little longer, then send my son to the overseer.”

They thanked him and continued along the water. Beyond the bend, they found healthier leaves and worked in silence until they had enough. Liya spread a light cloth over the basket and tied its corners to keep the leaves from blowing away.

Rigar reached for the handle, then stopped.

Across the canal, beside steps descending behind a low wall, a blue bag lay on its side.

They crossed a stone walkway over the canal. At the foot of the steps stood a wooden door reinforced with iron bands. A heavy beam barred it, its ends resting in sockets in the walls. Beside it, a narrow water opening was blocked by rusty bars.

The bag was open. A cloth-wrapped loaf protruded from it, and a hammer and chisel lay nearby. A long smear of mud marked the stones of the bottom step, as though something heavy had been dragged across them.

Rigar set down the basket.

“Perhaps they’re working inside.”

He approached the door and called, “Is anyone there?”

Only the faint trickle of water answered from behind the bars.

He knocked with his fist and waited.

A faint sound came.

Three knocks, then silence.

He looked at Liya. She had taken her staff in both hands.

He knocked three times.

The sound came again, a little faster.

Rigar bent toward the gap between two planks.

“We can hear you! Can you speak?”

A rustle, then a man’s voice, too indistinct to understand.

Rigar looked up at the beam. One end sat crookedly in its socket, with a fallen piece of masonry wedged behind it. He gripped the wood with his right hand and tried to lift it. It shifted slightly, then jammed.

“Wait,” Liya said.

She was watching the water opening. A scrap of coarse cloth hung from a rusty hook above it. Beneath the bars, something pale moved and vanished.

Rigar released the beam and stepped closer. Faint red strands drifted through the shallow water, dissolving in the current.

The voice came again, clearer this time.

“Don’t… open…”

Rigar went still.

He pressed his ear to the wood, trying to catch the rest. He heard ragged breathing and, farther away, something scraping against stone. Then something struck the inside of the door.

He stepped back, drawing his sword halfway from its sheath.

“The farmer’s nearby,” Liya said quietly. “I can get him and have someone fetch the guards.”

Rigar looked up the steps, then at the jammed beam. The wood was rough and cracked, but its sockets were deep. He sheathed his sword and picked up the hammer.

“Go. I’ll stay here and try to find out what happened.”

She hesitated, then handed him the waterskin and moved the basket away from the steps.

“Don’t lift it before I come back.”

“I won’t.”

She hurried up the stairs. He waited until her footsteps had faded, then tapped softly on the wood.

“My companion’s gone for help. Are you one of the canal workers?”

The answer came from low down, near the bottom of the door.

“Yes.”

“Are you hurt?”

For a moment, there was no reply. He crouched lower, resting a hand on the damp stone.

“My leg… I can’t…”

“We’ll ask the guards to bring your partner, too.”

Inside, the trickling water stopped for a moment, then resumed with a ripple that washed against the bars.

He heard the man gasp.

“It’s here with me.”

Rigar gripped the waterskin, searching for a gap through which he could pass some water.

“Your partner?”

This time, the man raised his voice as much as his breath allowed.

“My partner went out to fetch rope.”

Rigar looked at the blue bag, then at the smear of mud leading toward the water opening.

A slow scrape came from behind the door, followed by a long scratch across the wood.

The man’s voice drew away from the gap.

“Please… don’t let it hear you.”