Chapter 007: The City Whispers
[Life is like a game of chess... I don't know how to play chess.]
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THIS CHAPTER HAS REAL DATES SINCE I JUST FINISHED MAKING THE ORARIAN CALENDAR!
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{TIRDAS, SOLYRA 17, 999}
{EINA TULLE}
The Guild was already loud when Eina Tulle arrived. It always was on Tirdas—half the adventurers too tired to be polite, the other half too broke to pretend. The clamor of boots on stone, the murmur of clerks, and the ever-present scratching of quills filled the hall with a rhythm that most people learned to ignore. Eina never quite managed to.
She had just settled at her desk, sliding a stack of parchment reports into place, when she heard it the first time. Two men—Level Ones by the look of them—talking in the registration line.
"...swear to the gods, it was clear. Like looking through glass."
"You're drunk."
"Wasn't! Old Marta bought a bottle off him near West Market. Cold as snowmelt, no smell, no grit, nothing."
Eina glanced up, half-listening as they argued about what they'd seen. She heard "water," "merchant," and something about "bottled glass." Not the strangest rumor she'd heard before noon, but peculiar enough to stick in her mind.
By the time the second report reached her—a courier dropping off a minor complaint from a street vendor—it wasn't just a rumor anymore. The document was stamped Minor Commerce Inquiry, and someone had written across the margin in thick ink: "Unlicensed sale of liquid goods—claims of purity unnatural."
Eina sighed. "Unnatural purity," she muttered. "What does that even mean?"
"Means somebody's got a sense of humor," said her coworker across the desk, a burly clerk named Rellen who'd been with the Guild longer than she'd been alive. He set down his pen and rubbed his temple. "That's the third one this morning. You'd think someone selling water wouldn't be enough to start a panic."
"Water doesn't usually cause a panic," she said, scanning the parchment. "Unless it's poisoned."
"Or blessed."
That made her pause. She looked up. "Blessed?"
He shrugged. "You know how people are. Anything they can't explain turns holy or cursed by lunch. Word's going around about some shopkeeper—new fellow, foreign name—selling water that never warms, never spoils, and tastes like nothing at all. Folks are buying it by the handful."
Eina leaned back in her chair, tapping the page with her pen. "That's oddly specific."
Rellen grinned. "Suppose you'll be the one they send if this keeps up. You're the patient one."
"I'm also the only one who doesn't threaten to fine adventurers for breathing too loud."
He chuckled and went back to his paperwork.
Eina let the conversation fade, but her mind kept circling it. A new merchant, clean water, and enough sales to warrant Guild attention within a day? That was fast, even for Orario. She checked the report's footer—Filed by Assistant Supervisor Ilka Frein, Warehouse District, Solyra 16, 999.
That name caught her eye. Ilka wasn't one to exaggerate.
A faint draft carried the scent of ink and old parchment across the desk as she read on. The merchant's name was listed near the bottom: Lucian Gilford, provisional vendor, unregistered goods, currently operating under local rental license.
She mouthed the name once, thoughtfully. "Gilford."
There was no official seal on the report yet, which meant no one had investigated. She stacked the parchment neatly atop her day's pile, tapped it straight, and rose from her chair. "I'll take this one."
Rellen looked up. "The water thing?"
"The water thing."
He raised a brow. "Sure you don't want to wait until someone else confirms it's real?"
She smiled faintly. "If I did that, half my job would never get done."
The sound of her boots echoed softly as she crossed the hall, the Guild's din fading behind her. Outside, the sun was already climbing toward its midday height, spilling through the arched windows in long, warm shafts of light.
Somewhere in the city, a man was apparently selling miracles by the bottle. Eina Tulle intended to find out how.
Eina stepped out into the midday light, adjusting her satchel against her shoulder as the city's sound and scent swallowed her whole. Orario in Solyra was never quiet. The air was a mix of roasting nuts, horse sweat, and the faint metallic tang from the smithing quarter. Children darted between carts, hawkers called over one another, and somewhere a lute was losing a duel with a drunk singer.
It was the same every week, but today the crowd felt different—tighter, restless in the way people get when they're all chasing the same rumor. She caught fragments as she walked.
"—sold out already?"
"They say it's cold!"
"Bottles, like glass but soft—don't crack when dropped!"
Eina slowed near a fruit vendor who was whispering to a younger clerk beside him. He was gesturing with an empty hand, the motions oddly reverent.
"She said it came from the Guild's own wells!" the man insisted.
Eina cleared her throat gently. "Pardon me. Are you talking about the new water merchant?"
The vendor blinked, startled, then gave her a quick, wary nod. "Aye. You've heard?"
"I've heard enough to want directions."
He pointed east, toward the quieter rows near the old storage houses. "Little shop just past the weavers' lane. Wooden sign, painted black. Name's Gilford something."
"Thank you," she said, passing him a small copper for his trouble.
She followed the narrow streets until the noise of the main bazaar faded into the hum of workaday life—carpenters shouting measurements, the rhythmic clang of a hammer striking tin. The Great Warehouse district wasn't far, and the cobblestones here carried the wear of wagons rather than polished boots.
At a crossroad, she spotted two adventurers leaning against a fountain, both holding the same strange clear cylinders. She approached slowly, pretending to adjust her satchel while she listened.
"Still cold," one said, turning the bottle over in his hand like it might vanish if he looked away. "I left mine in the sun for an hour."
"Couldn't afford a second," the other grumbled. "Fifty Valis for water."
"Worth it," said the first. "Tastes cleaner than rain off Babel's roof."
Eina watched them a moment longer before stepping closer. "Excuse me," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "May I see that?"
The man offered the bottle without hesitation. Up close, it was lighter than she expected, smooth under her fingers, and capped with a tiny spiral of ridged plastic. She turned it in the light. The transparency was perfect—no clouding, no tint, not even a trace of sediment. It looked like something manufactured, not crafted.
"Where did you buy this?" she asked.
"Gilford's place," he said immediately. "Down near the old candle shop."
She handed the bottle back, thanked them, and kept walking.
The shop wasn't hard to find. A modest sign hung over the door in neat black paint: Gilford General Store. The brushwork was uneven, human, done by someone who cared more about the name than the symmetry. Through the window she could see shelves—neatly lined, half-full—and a wire stand by the counter stacked with strange glossy pamphlets that glinted in the light.
A few locals were already lingering near the entrance, their chatter a mix of curiosity and admiration.
"Look, he's even got prints of the month's deals!" one said, waving a pamphlet.
Eina approached quietly, taking in the scene. The store was small, yes, but tidy—orderly in a way that spoke of discipline. The faint smell of wood polish mixed with something else she couldn't place: paper, ink, and… plastic.
A new kind of merchant. A new kind of product.
And, if the rumors were right, a new kind of problem for the Guild.
She took one more look through the window, her eyes finding the man behind the counter—lean, composed, with an expression halfway between boredom and quiet amusement as he rearranged bottles on the shelf.
Lucian Gilford.
Eina adjusted her glasses, drew a slow breath, and stepped through the door.
The bell chimed, light and unassuming, and Lucian glanced up from the counter. He was in the middle of rearranging his entire inventory—which, in practical terms, meant eight bottles of water that he'd been moving between two shelves for the better part of ten minutes.
From Eina's perspective, it looked almost comical. The shop was small but meticulously clean, as though sheer order could disguise how little stock there really was. Each bottle caught the sunlight just so, lined in perfect rows like soldiers at parade rest. The wire rack beside the counter gleamed with those strange, glossy pamphlets, their colors too vivid, their lettering too perfect to have been printed anywhere in Orario.
"Morning," Lucian said, setting the last bottle down with exaggerated care. "Welcome to the booming empire of Gilford General Store. Inventory's tight this week, but the décor's worth the trip."
Eina blinked, momentarily wrong-footed by the easy humor. "Gilford, I presume?"
"That's me," he said. "And you're either here to buy water or fine me for selling it."
She smiled faintly at that. "I'm here on behalf of the Guild. My name's Eina Tulle."
He didn't flinch, but his brow lifted slightly. "Guild already? That was fast. I've only been in business a day."
"Rumors travel faster than caravans," she said. Her tone was even—warm, but with that practiced professional steadiness that came from years of wrangling overeager adventurers. "You've caused quite the stir. Unlicensed goods, apparently miraculous quality, and a taste so clean people think you've bottled a blessing."
Lucian snorted softly. "If this stuff counts as a miracle, I weep for your plumbing."
That earned a small, involuntary laugh from her before she caught herself. "Regardless, the Guild prefers to keep track of new merchants. Especially ones selling something unusual."
"Fair," he said, leaning on the counter. "Though I'm not exactly running an empire here." He gestured behind him. "Eight bottles left. Well, technically seven, if I get thirsty."
Her eyes flicked over the shelves again. "You sold the rest already?"
"Most of them, yeah. People seemed… enthusiastic."
"I can imagine." She stepped closer, examining one of the bottles. "This material—glass?"
"Not quite."
She frowned, turning it over in her hand. "Then what is it?"
Lucian hesitated. "Let's just say it's a kind of flexible glass from… my home. Doesn't break easy, keeps the water clean."
"Your home," she repeated carefully. "You're not from Orario, then."
"Not even from this continent," he said lightly, before adding, "Probably."
Eina gave him a long, assessing look—the kind she usually reserved for adventurers who lied about their level. There was no arrogance in him, though, no slickness. Just an odd, matter-of-fact calm.
"The Guild will need to document your trade activity," she said finally. "Where you're sourcing your goods, how you intend to sell them, and any potential… magical interference."
He nodded slowly. "Sure. But I should warn you, my supplier's a little unconventional."
"Unconventional how?"
"You ever order something," he said, deadpan, "and it just… shows up?"
She blinked, unsure whether to frown or laugh. "You mean delivery?"
"Something like that," he said, smiling faintly. "Only faster."
Eina sighed through her nose. She'd dealt with every kind of lunatic Orario had to offer—monster hunters, mages who swore by invisible familiars, a man who once tried to register a divine cow. But this one… he didn't feel delusional. He felt comfortable. Like the absurdity wasn't something he believed—it was just something that happened to him.
"Well, Mr. Gilford," she said, tucking the bottle into her pocket. He noticed and did nothing. "I'll need to file an observation report. Nothing serious yet, but the Guild will likely send a formal inspector in a few days."
"Good to know," he said. "Should I set out extra pamphlets?"
Her eyes flicked to the rack again, and she reached for one. "Solyra's Treasure Hunt. These are…" she trailed off, flipping through the pages and stopping at an illustration of an enormous plush bear. Her eyebrows shot up. "Is this real?"
"Technically."
"What does one do with a creature like this?"
Lucian grinned. "Decorate. Intimidate. Emotionally confuse your enemies. The possibilities are endless."
She closed the pamphlet and exhaled. "You're either very clever, Mr. Gilford, or very strange."
"Can't it be both?"
That almost got her to smile again. Almost.
Eina tucked the pamphlet under her arm and stepped toward the door. "You'll hear from us soon. Until then, try not to perform any more miracles."
"No promises," he said.
The bell above the door chimed again as she left, the sound swallowed by the hum of the street.
The Guild hall hadn't quieted by the time Eina returned. It never did, not really. Even as the sun began to dip toward the rooftops, the main chamber buzzed with the endless cycle of complaints, filings, and commission renewals that kept Orario from collapsing under its own chaos.
She slipped through the door, brushing the street dust from her skirt, and made her way toward the back desks. Rellen was still there, predictably, a cup of tea gone cold beside a tower of half-signed papers. He looked up as she set her satchel down.
"Well?" he asked, already grinning. "Did our miracle merchant turn out to be a scam artist or a prophet?"
"Neither," she said, pulling out her notes. "Just… strange."
Rellen leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers over his stomach. "That's not a category on the form, you know."
"Maybe it should be," Eina said, dropping into her seat. She opened her logbook, the page already dated: Tirdas, Solyra 17, 999. Under Subject, she wrote: Lucian Gilford, merchant — possible unregistered trade anomaly.
Rellen's eyebrows climbed as he watched her write. "That serious?"
"No. But I can't classify it as ordinary either." She reached into her bag and pulled out one of the pamphlets, sliding it across the desk. "He gave me this."
Rellen blinked down at the glossy cover. Solyra's Treasure Hunt — Gilford General Store. The bright red lettering and smiling faces looked like something straight out of a dream. Or a delusion.
"What in the gods' names…" He flipped it open, then barked out a laugh. "A ten-foot teddy bear? A six-fire cooking altar? You're joking."
"I wish I was," she said. "He claims they're all real."
Rellen looked at her over the top of the pamphlet. "And you believe him?"
Eina hesitated. The reasonable answer was no. She shouldn't believe him. And yet—she remembered the bottle, cool and weightless in her hand, the way the water had tasted like nothing at all, like purity distilled. She'd tasted river water her whole life, from every well and fountain in the city, and none of it had ever been that clean.
"He's not lying," she said quietly. "At least, not about the water."
Rellen raised an eyebrow. "And the rest?"
She shook her head. "I didn't press. But whatever his method is, it's… different. The packaging, the precision—it's beyond what any local craftsman could do."
Rellen turned the pamphlet sideways, studying the perfect print. "Feels like divine work."
"Maybe," she said. "But it didn't feel divine. No aura, no blessing, no enchantment. Just technology I don't understand."
He whistled low. "You think he's from outside Orario?"
"Further than that." She tapped her pen against the paper thoughtfully. "There's something off about him. His speech, his posture, even how he looks at people. Like he's… visiting, not living."
Rellen grunted. "Sounds like half the adventurers that show up here."
Eina smirked. "True. But most adventurers don't make the city gossip in twenty-four hours."
He laughed. "Fair point. What do you want to do about him?"
"For now, nothing formal. I'll file the preliminary observation, but until he breaks a law, he's just another merchant. Still…" She trailed off, glancing at the bottle she'd kept, half-empty now and resting beside her inkpot. Even hours later, condensation still clung to the plastic.
Rellen followed her gaze. "You brought a sample?"
"I wanted to test it later," she said, almost defensively. "Compare it to the Guild's purified stock."
"Or drink it," he said dryly.
"That too," she admitted.
He chuckled again, leaning forward. "So, what's your read, Eina? Is this Gilford a threat?"
She paused, thinking of his calm demeanor, his sardonic humor, the faint smile when she'd teased him about miracles.
"No," she said finally. "Not a threat. Just… a ripple. Something small that's going to make bigger waves later."
Rellen hummed thoughtfully. "The city's always whispering before something big happens."
She nodded, her eyes drifting toward the open window and the sunset bleeding through the glass. The sounds of the city below drifted upward—cart wheels, laughter, the clang of a smith's hammer.
And somewhere in that noise, Eina imagined the faint jingle of a shop bell and a foreigner behind a counter, selling bottled miracles to anyone with fifty Valis and a thirst.