When He Asked What My Price Was

It was the first time the city gates had closed since I arrived here. People said those gates hadn't shut even during the war. Yet nobody dared say out loud that it took seven magitech armor suits to bring them down.

It was exactly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the morning of the third day since I notched eleven tally marks into the post beside my bolt bin. Just as predicted, seven suits inside the fortress collapsed all at once—machinery the knights had been running under the impression it was brand-new.

"Ruan, lad, it's twelve coins a bowl today."

The auntie looked up at me, ladle still in hand. Yesterday, the soup had been eight silvers. Four days ago, it was six—meaning the price had climbed by two coins even before the gates actually shut.

"They say meat shipments are backed up at the gate," she muttered. "If the kingdom's shutting its doors, an old woman can't be taking a loss, can she?"

I set down twelve silver coins.

I wasn't surprised. The ones entitled to shock were the people who operated that scrap, not the man who foresaw it three days ago. The seventh notch out of eleven on my timber post had simply paid its due this morning.

The alley buzzed with noise before I even unlatched the workshop doors. When the fortress gates shut, wagons cannot enter. When wagons cannot enter, meat cannot arrive. And when meat doesn't arrive, the soup eatery cook hikes her prices. This wasn't prophecy; it was basic arithmetic set in motion three days back. No one else had bothered to count that before the magitech armor fell, the price of a bowl of soup would collapse first.

By the time I finished half the bowl, the din outside grew louder. Pausing my spoon, I listened to the shifting clamor; the commotion always pooled toward the gate.

People were surging toward the entrance. I set my spoon down and followed the crowd. Leaving half a bowl of hot soup felt like a waste, but seeing what lay sprawled across that public square took precedence over twelve coins' worth of broth.

The checkpoint square was a sight I had never witnessed before. Supply wagons trapped in limbo, unable to enter or leave, were piled high as hills before the iron-banded doors. In the middle of it all lay the seven collapsed suits. One knelt with a buckled knee; another lay facedown, its arm smashed into the flagstones. Both the broken knee and the pulverized shoulder were the exact joints I had pointed out in my yard three days ago.

Onlookers formed a ring three ranks deep. A handful of Blue Knight mechanics dashed frantic circles between the wreckage. But running was all they did. They couldn't lay a finger on the metal. Hands that didn't know which casing to unbolt had nothing left to do but run around in circles.

A fresh public notice was tacked to the fortress wall, its ink still damp. It hadn't been posted even half a bell ago.

It wasn't an inspection. I knew damn well it wasn't. That paper was nothing more than the spot where refurbished junk had buckled precisely as it had been patched. An inspection happened before something collapsed; this slip of parchment was tacked up only after the iron hit the dirt.

Someone spat onto the cobbles beside me.

"You heard about that oddball yard? That crazy price-monger who claimed they'd only last three days?"

"Whatever that yard touches runs fine, yet the fortress's own gear drops dead at the gate. Isn't that completely backward?"

Nothing was backward. Things had happened in their natural sequence. The only problem was that I was the sole person in this square who knew that order. And an order known to only one man, no matter how true, always spun upside down in the mouths of rumor.

Whispers rippled through the crowd like waves. Standing behind the swell, I counted the fallen suits. One, two, all the way to seven, matching them against the eleven marks carved into the post by my workshop. Habitual tallying had been beaten into me during my years inside the walls. Back then, I counted the suits that rolled out; now, I counted the ones that fell over.

Seven lay ruined here, which meant four were still moving somewhere inside the castle walls. Eleven minus seven left four. Four suits still riding on knights' shoulders, their only new feature being forged inspection stamps.

Just then, the crowd parted.

A maintenance apprentice, drenched in sweat, came sprinting in my direction. He recognized me instantly. It was the same soldier who had hauled that bundle to my yard three days ago—the one who had stomped away in fury after I read what was hidden inside his pack without ever opening it.

"You... you're from that yard, aren't you?"

I wiped my hands on my work apron, the smell of soup clinging to my skin. The scent of a twelve-coin breakfast hadn't even faded from my fingertips.

"He wants you brought over. The Commander does."

The entire square went dead silent at those words.

The very order that had pitched me out past the walls was now summoning me back to the gate the moment it swung shut. It was the gate when they cast me out, and it was the gate when they called me back. The only thing that had changed was whether the doors were open or barred.

I followed the soldier through the human wall. Inside the cordon, all was quiet. Not a calm silence, but the paralysis of men who had thrown up their hands in surrender. The silence of abandoning effort and the silence of utter speechlessness were two different things, and this was the former.

Four mechanics hovered uselessly between the magitech armor suits. Hovering was all they could manage. Their hands were utterly lost. How to dismantle an axle they had never seen opened wasn't written anywhere in the castle manuals.

I circled the seven suits, keeping my hands clasped behind my back. I had no intention of touching anything today. If you lay hands on something you can diagnose by eye alone, its price depreciates—a lesson I learned well beyond the fortress walls.

I crouched before the suit with the buckled knee. Its joint housing was half-split, laying bare the inner drive shaft. Thanks to the cracked casing, my eyes tallied the cost before my fingers even moved.

It was ground down in the exact same spot. It was the exact file mark I had felt in my yard three days ago. Even the depth was identical; the stroke belonged to the same whetstone, guided by the very same hand.

A worn-out axle masquerading as new. A piece of scrap with nothing refreshed but a counterfeit stamp. The men who operated it had dragged it all the way here believing it was factory-fresh. A single forged stamp had forced the city gates to shut, making that emblem the most expensive ink mark in the entire kingdom.

I traced the underside of the stamp with my gaze. The grain from the grinding ran strictly in one direction. The groove left by a hand that had worked it eleven times was perfectly reproduced here. For one hand to grind down eleven joints in identical fashion meant this wasn't an oversight. It was an ingrained habit.

Someone stepped in to block me. Judging by his face, he was the chief of maintenance. His hands looked well-practiced at barring people, if not repairing armor.

"Keep your hands off. This isn't a place for an outcast yard to poke its nose."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

I wasn't touching it in the first place. He blocked me when I hadn't moved a finger. Hands that bar nothing reveal the very fear their owners try to hide.

"I'm not touching it," I said, straightening up. "There's nothing left to touch anyway. This scrap was done for three days ago."

He snorted, but the sneer died in his throat.

In that brief pause, the second suit's remaining forearm gave way. Heavy iron struck the paving stones with a dull crack, ringing longer than any haughty sneer.

The impact split the air. The onlookers shrank back half a step. The man who had scoffed clamped his mouth shut, the silence between his lips far wider than his previous contempt.

It wasn't my tongue that proved me right. It was the collapsing armor. I had merely run the count three days early; the iron had verified it under its own sheer weight.

In this square, I was the most useless man present. At the same time, I was the only person who understood what was broken. Embodying both utter uselessness and singular necessity was a value that never existed inside the castle walls.

This time, the supervisor lowered his voice. "Then... can you fix it?"

Moments ago, those same lips had told me to keep my hands off. Now they were begging for repairs. The only variable that had shifted wasn't my skill, but the tally of fallen armor. Between one collapsing and a second following suit, his tone had morphed from a command into a plea.

The soldier with the bundle stole a glance at me, swallowing hard. His face showed he had finally pieced together how I knew what lay inside his pack three days ago. He was tallying up the reality that his anger on that day had been entirely wasted.

I stepped over and crouched before the third suit. All three were identical. There was no need to inspect the fourth or the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seventh; they would be the same. Skipping them wasn't negligence; it was confirmation that the same hand had cut the exact same groove eleven times over.

The work of someone who claimed to manage eleven units within the walls. Seven of them were laid out flat here today. Four remained inside the perimeter. Those four ticking hazards were the true weight pressing down on the square's silence.

When and where those remaining four would buckle was something I hadn't notched onto my wooden post. That was a number money couldn't buy. The price of predicting where ruin would strike was a tariff my yard had yet to name.

The ring of spectators parted once more, this time from the opposite flank. A wall of people parting toward the gates and one parting toward the castle yielded very different men.

Gareth Holdwin strode out. Unarmored, walking on his own two feet. A commander who could no longer trust his magitech armor had no choice but to walk bare.

His was a face steeped in twenty-four years of castle life. His was the hand that had signed the banishment order casting me out. And the final day of those twenty-four years happened to be today, beneath closed gates.

He stopped in front of me, glancing back at the seven ruined suits before turning his gaze my way. It had taken him three full days to move his eyes from the machines to the mechanic.

"It's you," he said. "I thought I'd never see your face again."

I wiped my hands against my apron. The scent of soup lingered—twelve silvers' worth of broth. That smell spoke volumes of how I had survived beyond the walls without a single word needed.

"Last time," he began, measuring his phrasing, "you stated a price. Twenty coins, wasn't it?"

I didn't answer. He had already memorized the figure. For a man of his standing to commit twenty coins to memory meant the price had burned into him.

He looked back at the seven suits once more, his gaze lingering. The longer he stared, the more his own mind must have calculated that these machines were never new.

"This time, I'll ask first."

The square fell dead quiet. Beneath the posted wall, before the barricaded portal of a kingdom brought to a halt for a day, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the cost of a day's passage, a day's meat, and a day's broth all held their breath for his next words.

"What is your price?"

I didn't name a coin.

Reaching into my apron pocket, my fingers found the folded slip of paper I had tucked away this morning. I had penned it with hands still smelling of soup after paying my bill—a document prepared the moment I learned the gates were shut, long before considering a fee.

It was a moment primed for naming a price. Instead of coins, I unfolded the paper. Naming a price ended the day; unfolding this paper began the next three.

"I'm not naming a price."

Gareth's brow twitched. A tradesman refusing to name a sum was something this yard had never seen in twenty-four years.

Whatever hasn't passed through my hands won't last three days.

I held the paper out to him. "Take this instead."

He took the parchment. The entire square seemed to hang from that single sheet. What seven hulks of magitech armor had failed to accomplish, a sliver of paper was about to dictate.

Gareth read the three clauses. He read them once, then read them again. On the second pass, his eyes lingered on the final line for a long, heavy moment.

"You intend to log the inventory yourself."

"Yes."

"You're telling me you will sift through the order's equipment right before its commander's eyes."

"I'm not sifting. I'm counting. Separating what is truly new from what merely bears a new stamp."

Sifting was taking sides; counting had no allegiance.

He raised his head. He looked at the seven collapsed suits. He looked at the sealed gates, and at the wagons heaped high before them. Viewing all three in sequence, he too counted the reality that every bit of this fallout came from the very same hand.

This was no place for haggling. He knew it just as well as I did. Bargaining happened when there were two prices; here, there was only one.

"A quill," he commanded, holding out his hand.

A mechanic hurriedly pressed one into his palm. The hand that offered it was the same one that had been pacing aimlessly around the dead suits moments ago.

Gareth Holdwin signed his name at the bottom of my slip. The very hand that had authorized the order driving me past the walls now set its seal beneath my terms. The square didn't realize the hand that banished me and the hand that yielded were one and the same, but I knew.

The crowd watched in silence. Beneath the proclamation on the fortress wall, the notice above and the paper below occupied the same field of view.

The eccentric yard hadn't demanded a ransom. It had set conditions, and the commander had signed off on them. The signature drove home the truth: a fee lasted a single day, but terms endured for three.

The knights pulled back. They announced the gates would reopen tomorrow. Even if the gates opened tomorrow, the new inventory began today.

I folded the paper and tucked it away. Twenty coins per unit for seven suits came to at least one hundred and forty silvers. On a day when a bowl of soup cost twelve coins, a hundred and forty was worth eleven full bowls with eight silvers left over. I folded that remaining balance neatly into my pocket alongside the agreement.

I limped back to my yard. Footsteps followed behind me—just a single pair. A lone set of steps lingered far longer than the tramping of a crowd.

I glanced back. It was Irma Ben. The adjutant who had marched out through the gates was back before they even reopened. When she left, she had been bearing armor on her shoulders.

Now she carried a pack. It wasn't baggage packed to return to the castle; it was baggage pulled out from it. The knot on luggage bound for home was tied differently from luggage packed to leave, and this was the latter.

Irma lowered her pack beside my toolbox.

"I can't pay wages here," I said. This yard didn't have a strongbox to hold payroll. Far from a chest, a nailed-shut wooden box was the entirety of my estate.

"I know," she replied, resting her hand on her pack. "I'll pay my own."

When an employer stated he had no wages to offer, she declared she would provide her own pay. An adjutant bringing her own savings just to work under me. The hand that once drew a salary from the fortress had turned itself inside out to pay its own keep beyond the walls.

I glanced down at my feet. The nailed-shut box sat right there—the one object I would never open, no matter the price.

"Leave everything else as it is, but don't you ever lay a hand on that nailed box."

"I won't." She paused in the middle of unlacing her gear, her hand halting right where the box lay. "What should I call you?"

It had been a long time since anyone asked for my name. Ever since being driven outside the walls, people had called me the eccentric mechanic or the price-monger. No one had asked who I was. In a place where names were only tied to price tags, she asked for the name tied to the man.

"Ruan Cade," I said.

The adjutant didn't leave.

That night, the yard's gate was closed. On the night the kingdom's gates shut, my workshop's gate shut as well. Of the two barred doors, one belonged to the realm, and the other belonged to me.

Irma slept beside the toolbox. I lay down with the nailed box resting at my feet. No knocking disturbed the dark. For the first time in three days, the person who had business here was already inside.

When I unlatched the door the next morning, a wooden crate was sitting right outside.

No price tag. No name. In this yard, an item with neither price nor name was always the most valuable thing of all.

A crest was stamped into the lid—the seal of Count Roen's estate. Not the Blue Knights, but a count's house.

I lifted the lid. Something rested inside.

It was an all-too-familiar piece of hardware: the very last component I had serviced before leaving the Blue Knight Order. I had memorized the precise shaft it gripped long before I ever notched eleven marks into my post.

The piece that had passed through my hands on the day of my banishment had returned to my doorstep without a name or a fee. The gate was what had thrown me out, and the gate was what had delivered this back to me. Only this time, I had yet to count which notch among the eleven this gate would be.