Chapter 020: Toma The Carpenter
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{MIDDAS, SOLYRA 25, 999 – 09:47}
{LUCIAN GILFORD}
Rose's footsteps faded into the lane, leaving a silence that felt heavier than usual. I glanced at the battered clock above the shelves—sundown was still hours away, and I had no intention of pacing the shop worrying about dress codes or godly etiquette. Banquets could wait. There were real things to do.
First, I took inventory. Bottles on the main shelf, spices in their tins, salt stacked in the back, a few curiosities I still hadn't figured out how to market. My new shipment of water was already half spoken for; I made a note to order more before I ran dry. The "Imports & Rarities" pamphlets had drawn interest, but so far only the richest customers dared ask about them.
I sorted tins by freshness, wiped down counters, and stashed damaged goods for later repair. The act of putting things in order—knowing exactly what I had and where it belonged—settled my nerves better than any pep talk. My mind cleared with every stacked crate and checked ledger entry.
When the last of the morning sunlight had crawled halfway across the front room, I locked up, set the sign to "Out," and slipped the day's coins into my pocket.
Time to meet Toma. I stepped out into the street, the lane already busier with midday trade. The carpenter's guild was a few blocks away, tucked behind a lumber yard and marked by the sound of hammers and the sawdust scent that always clung to their yard.
As I made my way, I rehearsed what I'd say—how to balance ambition with humility, how to convince a craftsman to care about a shop most folks still thought was just a curiosity.
Maybe tonight I'd have to pretend to be a merchant worthy of a gods' banquet. But for now, I was just a man trying to keep his business standing, one floorboard at a time.
I cut west from the merchant lanes, heading deeper into the heart of Orario's working quarter. The air changed as I walked, trading the sharp tang of dye and baked bread for the heavier scents of sawdust, wet earth, and coal smoke. Stonecutters called to one another across yards stacked with granite and brick, their shirts streaked white with dust. Carpenters moved planks on their shoulders, shouting jokes and curses I barely caught.
Every block seemed to specialize—blacksmiths working bellows outside low, fire-lit forges; roofers patching tiles high above the street, their ladders lashing back and forth with every wind gust. I passed a team of ironworkers fitting bars to the frame of what would become a new tavern. Their hammers rang in counterpoint to the softer rhythm of chisels shaping stone for lintels and steps.
The pace was relentless. A wheelwright splashed water to keep a wooden spoke from warping in the sun. Two masons argued over a line drawn in charcoal on the side of a half-built wall. A half-dozen apprentices ferried buckets, beams, and mortar, weaving through the chaos with the practiced ease of people born to it.
I kept to the edge of the street, feeling out of place in my merchant's coat among so many men and women with dirt under their nails and muscles built on real work. My business was selling—shuffling numbers, haggling prices, tracking stock—but theirs was what kept the city standing through rain and winter and the wild energy that pulsed up from the Dungeon below.
It wasn't hard to find the carpenter's guild. A pair of wide double doors stood open to the street, the sign above etched with a saw and chisel. Inside, the murmur of voices blended with the tap of hammers and the smell of cut pine. Sunlight slanted across workbenches and tools lined up with the obsessive neatness only craftsmen seemed to manage.
I paused in the doorway, scanning the faces for someone who looked like a man called Toma. If Yora's word was good, I'd soon have answers. If not, I'd at least get a lesson in how Orario did business when the job was bigger than a single pair of hands.
And for a moment, I let myself admire the churn and clatter of the builder's quarter—a part of the city too busy surviving to notice a newcomer watching from the sidelines.
The place was half workshop, half meeting hall. Boards stacked along the wall, tools hung in neat rows behind the front counter, the air thick with the scents of resin and sweat. Guild badges glinted on heavy aprons. I made my way past a low worktable where an apprentice was measuring dovetails, trying not to trip over a crate of joinery scraps.
The main counter was worn smooth by decades of paperwork and handshakes. Behind it, a clerk with salt-and-pepper hair sorted invoices into two haphazard piles. He looked up as I approached, appraising me with the same skepticism reserved for lost travelers and unpaid bills.
"Help you?" he asked, voice blunt as a mallet.
I cleared my throat and tried not to sound like I'd practiced the question in my head for ten blocks. "I'm looking for Toma. Yora down the lane sent me—said he was the one to talk to about repairs."
He sized me up for a moment, eyes flicking from my coat to the callouses on my hands—probably noticing I had more ink stains than blisters. "Toma's out back," he grunted, jerking his head toward a door propped open to let in the noise and sunlight. "You'll find him with the big saw. If he looks busy, wait until he's done. And don't stand in the dust chute, or you'll regret it."
"Understood," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
He grunted again and returned to his paperwork, the sound of the ledger pages shuffling almost drowned out by the chorus of hammers beyond.
I took a steadying breath and stepped through the door, ready—if not exactly eager—to negotiate for the future of my shop.
The back of the guild opened onto a wide yard littered with shavings and stacks of lumber. A chorus of saws sang over the low thud of mallets. At the far end, beneath a canvas awning, a man stood bent over a heavy beam, coaxing a long two-man saw through solid oak as if it were no more trouble than slicing bread. Toma, I guessed—not just by his size, but by the way the apprentices gave him space.
I hung back, watching as he and his partner worked in sync, each draw of the saw met with a rush of fragrant sawdust. There was a rhythm to it, almost meditative, and I found myself counting the strokes before I realized I'd drifted into staring.
When the beam finally gave, Toma stepped back, rolling his shoulders. He said something to the other carpenter—a word I didn't catch, but the tone made it sound like a compliment. Then, still breathing hard, he turned and caught me standing at the edge of the work area, hands folded awkwardly in front of my coat.
He studied me for a moment, gray streaks in his dark hair, sleeves rolled and forearms corded with muscle. "You lost, friend?" His voice carried, but it wasn't unkind.
I shook my head. "Yora sent me. From down the lane." I tried to keep my tone respectful, careful not to sound like a man who expected a favor. "She said you're the one to talk to about repairs—shop needs new floors and shelving, maybe some patchwork on the roof."
Toma wiped his brow with a rag and tossed it onto a workbench. "You the new fellow with the bottled water?"
"That's me," I admitted, unsure if that helped or hurt my cause.
He grunted, the kind of sound that could mean anything from approval to outright skepticism. "Yora's word is good. So's her taste in tenants—usually. What exactly's wrong with the place?"
I relaxed a fraction, grateful for the opening. "Floor's starting to bow, counter leans, roof leaks if you squint at it. I want to make the place fit for real business, not just odds and ends."
Toma nodded slowly, appraising me the way a craftsman sizes up a fresh plank. "You want sturdy or pretty?"
"Sturdy. Pretty's a bonus. But if I can't stack goods on the shelves without a prayer, I'll be out of business by winter."
That got the faintest hint of a smile. "Good answer." He jerked his chin toward a row of blueprints tacked to a wall. "Let's take a look at what you've got. Then we'll talk price."
I followed him over, already rehearsing numbers in my head, determined not to let the city's oldest carpenter see just how new I really was.
Toma led me past the stacked planks and worktables to a cluttered board where sketches of shops, beams, and shelf layouts crowded for space. He stabbed a calloused finger at one, then glanced back. "So, what's your budget?"
No dancing around it—just the question every craftsman cares about.
I didn't bother hedging. "I'm willing to put up to five hundred thousand into the place, if it means the job's done right. That's for everything—floors, shelving, patch the roof, maybe a new counter if you think it's needed."
For a second, he just looked at me, as if weighing whether I was an idiot or a man who'd been mugged by optimism. Then he let out a low whistle.
"Not many shopkeepers in this part of town see that much in a year, let alone sink it all back into their buildings," he said. "That what the water business pays?"
I shrugged. "It pays enough if you work harder than you want to. And if you get lucky."
Toma grunted, eyes still on the board. "All right, then. For that kind of coin, I can put real men on it. Good wood. Floors that won't warp in the rain, shelves you can load with bricks. The roof'll need more than a patch if you want it to last through the season—could do it, but it'll cost you. New counter, maybe something with iron struts. What about the walls? Paint? Plaster?"
"If it fits the budget, I want it all. I want customers to feel like they're walking into a place built to last, not something thrown together."
He seemed to approve of that, or at least didn't frown. "How soon you want it done?"
"The sooner the better," I said, then caught myself. "But I need to keep the shop open as much as I can. I can close for a day or two, but if I go a week without selling, the city'll move on."
Toma nodded, working it through in his head. "All right. We can do it in sections—clear one part, work while you keep trading from the other. Might take a few days longer, but you won't lose all your business. You good with noise and dust?"
I almost laughed. "I sell water and spices, Toma. I'm already used to complaints."
He smiled, an honest one this time, and stuck out his hand. "We'll draw up the details this afternoon. If you've got the coin, I've got the crew."
I shook his hand, feeling like—for the first time since I arrived in Orario—I was about to do something lasting. Or at least, something worth the price of admission.
I hesitated, running my thumb along a splintered groove in the blueprint table. Toma noticed—the way good tradesmen always notice when someone's got one more thing to ask.
"There something else?" he asked, not quite impatient but close.
"Yeah. Is there any way you and your crew could work at night?" I glanced out at the bright yard, then back at him. "I know it's not normal. But if you can swing it, I'm willing to pay a little extra. And—well, I'll feed you. Dinner, hot drinks, whatever you need. I just… I want to keep the shop open as much as I can during the day, and I know the city gets fussy about daytime noise."
Toma's eyes narrowed—not suspicious, more curious. "Night work? In Orario?" He rubbed his jaw, thinking it through. "Nobody's ever asked that. Most shopkeepers want us gone before the sun sets. Lotta folks don't like the racket after dark."
I shrugged. "I'm not most shopkeepers. The sooner this is done, the better. And if that means serving stew at midnight, so be it. If it's not possible, just say so—I don't want trouble."
He hummed, tapping a knuckle on the table. "It's not impossible. Most of my crew don't mind odd hours. You feed them and keep the neighbors from raising hell, we'll work after sundown. You'll want to let the folks living close know ahead of time, though."
"That's fair," I said. "You set the rate, I'll cover it. Just keep the work as quiet as you can manage."
Toma grinned, a flash of gold tooth. "You might be strange, Gilford, but you're not stupid. Food goes a long way. We'll figure out a schedule this afternoon—price, meals, what's doable. If you can handle a bit of dust with your midnight stew, we'll have your place looking better than new."
I shook his hand a second time, the deal now more real than ever. In a city that thrived on routine and tradition, it felt good to throw in a curveball—and better to know I had a craftsman willing to catch it.
I left the carpenter's yard with the beginnings of a deal in my pocket and sawdust clinging to my cuffs. The sun was just past noon, the city bustling in every direction. I thumbed my phone awake—still "fone" to most everyone but me—and opened the map app, grateful for the little blue dot that insisted I wasn't as lost as I felt.
"Proceed straight for fifty paces, then turn left onto Lattice Alley," the device said, the voice tinny and too calm, echoing faintly off plaster walls.
A few heads turned. One old woman stared openly, eyes wide as dinner plates, as if I'd announced the day's lottery numbers out loud. A boy with a basket of rolls stopped mid-stride, mouth open, trying to figure out where the words had come from.
I kept my gaze forward, pretending that carrying on a conversation with a tiny artifact was the most natural thing in the world. If anyone asked, I'd claim it was a new Guild regulation—every merchant had to be tracked by a spirit for tax purposes. Or maybe I'd just play dumb, the way only foreigners could.
"Turn right in thirty paces," the phone prompted, and I obeyed, weaving between two market carts and into the shade of a colonnaded lane.
Every step drew new glances. Two apprentice scribes nearly collided behind me, whispering about the 'talking slate' and whether it might fetch a bounty if turned in at the guild. I caught the faintest echo of, "Maybe it's one of those new elven spellbooks," and couldn't help but grin.
My own discomfort faded with every turn—the rhythm of the voice, the certainty of the directions, the steady progress toward the looming Guildhall. In a city full of secrets, maybe one more wouldn't matter. Or maybe, I'd just started my own rumors for once.
The Guild's facade rose ahead, pale stone shining in the sun. The phone fell silent, content to let me finish the walk under my own power.
As I stepped inside, tucking the device away, I reminded myself: blending in was overrated, anyway.
The front desk was busier than usual, a line of adventurers trailing out into the sun. I waited my turn, the case growing warm under my arm. When I finally reached the counter, Eina looked up from her paperwork, the half-elf's expression flickering between polite welcome and professional suspicion.
"Gilford," she greeted, adjusting her glasses, "is there something I can help you with?"
I set my parcel down and nodded, tone businesslike. "A few things, if you have a minute. First—heads up, there's going to be construction on my shop for the next several nights. Night work. Floors, shelving, some roof repairs. I wanted to warn the Guild in case… well, in case there are ordinances about noise after sundown."
She blinked, pen pausing over her logbook. "Night work? That's unusual. We don't get many merchants who bother to file that sort of notice." She thought a moment, then shook her head. "No, I don't think there are formal restrictions—not in your part of town. But I appreciate the warning. If anyone files a complaint, I'll let them know you checked in first."
"Good to hear. I'd rather apologize in advance than after." I shifted my weight, mind already moving to the next item. "Second—can I schedule a meeting with Royman? There's some Guild business I'd like to clarify, and I thought it best to do it face to face."
Eina's brow furrowed, her professionalism wrapping a little tighter. "He's… busy at the moment. There's the gods' banquet, of course, and some ongoing matters with the school district. But I can book you a slot—say, the twenty-eighth?"
I nodded. "That'll work. Thank you."
She finished making the note, then hesitated, glancing at the phone now visible on the counter. Her curiosity finally broke through her official mask. "That artifact you always carry—may I ask where you found it? I've never seen anything quite like it, even among the higher-end guild devices."
I blinked, then chuckled, rubbing the back of my neck. "It's more common where I'm from than you'd think. Most folks have one—though not quite this exact kind. I can get them pretty easily." I turned the screen toward her, letting her see the glowing icons, the digital clock, the shimmering app grid.
She leaned in, eyes widening. "You mean you're selling these?"
I shrugged, keeping my voice casual. "If you have the coin and the patience for learning how it works, I can source them. Phones, tablets, little things for records or calculations. Not cheap, but reliable. And they don't need magic, just… care."
Her lips parted, surprise genuine and a little wary. "That would… change quite a lot, if you ever sold to the Guild."
I smiled, the practiced ease of a man who'd learned to make big promises sound ordinary. "If the Guild's interested, send someone by. I'm always willing to make a deal."
She recovered her professionalism, tucking a strand of hair behind one pointed ear. "I'll pass the message along. Thank you for the warning about the construction, and I'll let you know when your appointment is confirmed."
"Appreciate it," I said, stepping away from the counter with a final, courteous nod.
The line behind me shuffled forward, and I melted back into the crowd—one more strange merchant in a city where, for better or worse, word traveled faster than the morning wind.