A Smile Worth Fifty Cooper
"I don't know where you're from, some backwater hole or other, but forget about magic shops. I won't say this to be cruel. A person has to know his place in the world and live within it."
"I understand. I had no idea magic cost so much."
"Just staying alive costs money. Why would a mage be any different? You're all people, same as the rest of us."
The other customers nodded along, as if they agreed with the innkeeper.
"Then is there a mercenary guild?"
"Oh? So if you can't be a mage, you'll be a mercenary? My, what a marvelous little country boy we've got here!"
Scattered laughter rose from the room.
This time, Lawrence couldn't let it pass.
"You haven't even told me where the mercenary guild is yet, have you?"
"I'll find it myself."
After paying and leaving the inn, Lawrence stopped a passerby and asked.
Usually, people ignored a boy's questions and hurried on with their day, but persistence eventually bore fruit.
"The mercenary guild? Head toward the city gate. Follow the alley that leads into the carriage depot, and the first building you'll see is it."
Fortunately, the mercenary guild wasn't far away.
After thanking the man, Lawrence headed for the place he'd described.
The Redantus branch of the mercenary guild looked more like a tavern than anything else.
The overall tone inside the building was dark.
Faint lamps and shadows hanging in the hall.
The shadows wavering across the reception desk showed no sign of leaving.
There were more people in the hall than he'd expected.
Of course, since they were all using the guild, every one of them was a mercenary.
Even their weapons made that obvious.
Some wore leather armor, and others had chain armor woven from wire.
There were even mercenaries like Lawrence, draped in robes.
But beneath them, armor still showed through without fail.
Their weapons were just as varied, each seeming to reflect its owner.
Some mercenaries carried greatswords as big as a person.
Others wielded axes so heavy they seemed to grind the floor beneath them.
There were also the occasional spear user Lawrence had been thinking about, along with people handling blunt weapons like maces or morning stars.
The group had little in the way of uniformity, but if there was one thing they all had in common, it was the filthy smoke pouring off their tobacco.
He shook off the image of Lenard that rose unbidden in his mind.
There were three lit reception desks.
Two of them were serving mercenaries.
Only one desk was empty.
The receptionist was checking paperwork.
Trying to calm the mix of nerves and excitement pounding in his chest, Lawrence headed for the vacant desk.
"Hello. I'm here to register as a mercenary. Would it be all right to sign up?"
"Just a moment. Mercenary registration, is it? Is this your first time at the guild?"
She was a professional through and through.
No sooner had someone approached the counter than the receptionist girl had cleared the paperwork to one side.
"Yes. This is my first visit."
Without missing a beat, the receptionist tidied the desk as though she'd done this a hundred times, then took a wooden tablet from beneath it.
"Understood. Please fill this tablet out first. If you can't read or write, I'll guide you through it inside."
Not all mercenaries could read and write.
It was common for commoners to turn mercenary when they had no other way to make a living.
In that sense, it was only natural that there were more illiterate mercenaries than literate ones.
"Ah, that's fine. Do I just fill this out?"
"Yes. The mercenary guild is open to anyone. However, I must ask that you keep in mind that if you're caught engaging in problematic activities, you'll be struck from the ledger."
"I understand."
That was only common sense.
In other words, don't do anything too outrageous.
"If you have any item that can prove your identity, we can simplify the registration process."
"...I don't."
The hesitation in his reply was because of the letter Lenard had given him.
But he didn't want to take it out here.
He did want to step away from the shadow of the order, yes, but more than that, he simply didn't want to show a treasured letter sealed in wax to someone who wasn't even part of the church.
Taking the quill, Lawrence began filling out the tablet.
It was full of basic personal details and questions that seemed of little consequence.
Name, birthplace, age.
There was no need to hide his name.
As for his birthplace... after some thought, he wrote Hilton Village.
He didn't write his real age.
He was worried that if he wrote fourteen, people would look down on him for being too young.
Hadn't that already happened at the inn?
He decided to be bold and added five years to his real age, writing nineteen.
Just as he was moving smoothly through the questions, his hand came to an abrupt halt.
The tablet said the mercenary registration fee was 50 cooper.
"You'll need to pay that."
A businesslike voice reached his ears.
She must have noticed immediately where he'd gotten stuck.
"Do I really have to pay it?"
"The registration fee is only charged once, so don't worry."
The receptionist's sales smile was irritating.
He had no idea why, the moment he left the monastery, money kept getting spent on one thing after another.
What could he do?
Those were the guild's rules.
With a sigh, Lawrence took out his coin pouch.
After accepting the fee, the clerk took a wooden plate from the desk.
"Confirmed. On behalf of the Redantus branch of the mercenary guild, we welcome you as a new mercenary. Once your identity has been verified, you can make use of the guild's benefits. Lawrence... sir, starting today, you may work as a wood-plate mercenary. If you'd like, shall I introduce you to requests suitable for wood-plate rank right now?"
"No. I'll take care of that later."
He could look over the requests another time.
For now, getting the equipment he needed came first.
"Oh, and equipment for mercenary work is better bought at a smithy than a weapons shop. They're partnered with the guild, so the prices are lower and the quality is better too."
"Please do come by," she said, this time with a small smile rather than her sales grin.
For a smile worth fifty cooper, it wasn't pretty at all.
* * *
When Lawrence came back after registering, there was now a crowd gathered in front of the guild, where the street had been empty before.
Thump, thump!
A drumbeat rang out as if demanding their attention.
"We are the Wolves of the Battlefield! Everyone here knows we made a glorious name for ourselves in the Rival Plains territorial war! Hero with confidence in your skill, young man hungry for greater deeds—have you no desire to ride the wider battlefield with us?"
Dozens of mercenaries watched the horseman who had raised his voice.
"The Wolves of the Battlefield don't sound bad. They won against the Ironblood Knights in the Rival Plains territorial war, didn't they?"
"That's nonsense. I've seen the Ironblood Knights myself. They aren't opponents we can fight."
A small ripple moved through the mercenaries.
An especially grim-looking mercenary said, as if dismissing the boast outright, "It's not a lie that they took part in the Rival Plains territorial war and won. But saying they beat the Ironblood Knights? That's a lie."
"So they won the territorial war, but lost the real fight?"
"Exactly. Real knights are different from us. They're monsters to the bone. When they charged with their warhorses, dozens, sometimes hundreds of soldiers fell before them. You think mercenaries are any different? I learned that the hard way... in the Rival Plains territorial war."
His voice was almost a groan.
The mercenaries, hearing words born of experience, didn't easily speak up in return.
After watching the recruitment for a while longer, Lawrence turned away.
As much as any profession had its hardships, mercenaries had their own.
For now, he headed to the smithy the receptionist had recommended.
Finding it wasn't difficult.
The atmosphere was different from the ordinary shops on the street.
Sweat spilled over everything.
Muscles browned by heat and smoke.
Every time a hammer struck the anvil, sparks shot upward.
Whether or not there were customers present, the smithy was full of bare-chested artisans moving briskly about.
Voices calling for the bellows.
Endless tempering.
The artisan facing the furnace was searching for his own flame.
At this hour, this was almost certainly the busiest shop on the street.
"Anyone here?"
"Looking for something in particular, young man?"
A middle-aged artisan responded to Lawrence's greeting.
Maybe because he'd spent so long bent over the anvil, his head shone brightly without a single strand of hair on it.
Lawrence had thought he was short because his back was slightly stooped, but when the man straightened up, his frame easily towered over him.
"I was sent here by the mercenary guild. I'd like to look at some equipment."
"Hm. A mercenary, were you? Wait here a moment. Gazole! Come here for a second!"
The bald artisan called someone from inside the smithy.
"Coming!"
A deep voice answered from within.
A moment later, a man covered in sweat emerged.
"What is it?"
"He's come by through the mercenary guild's recommendation. Go show him some gear."
"Ah, that business. Understood. This way, then."
Gazole wiped the oil and sweat from his hands onto his trouser leg.
"I'm Gazole."
"I'm Lawrence."
The introductions were brief.
Lawrence followed Gazole, who led the way.
"Looks like there are quite a few mercenaries who come to the smithy instead of the weapons shop."
"I wouldn't say there are many, but there are a few now and then. The guild receptionist is supposed to recommend them first, but she doesn't end up liking all that many mercenaries."
"Usually, they don't even bother coming after hearing about it," he muttered, more complaint than observation.
"What would you like me to show you? Just say the word. I’ve got most things here."
"Then could I look at swords first?"
"A sword... will you be using it yourself?"
Lawrence nodded.
Gazole thought for a moment, then said, "In that case, this should do," and pulled out a sword with a simple design.
"Considering your build, this is probably the right fit. Give it a swing."
Lawrence took the sword he was handed.
The first thing he felt, holding a sword for the first time, was that it was heavier than he'd expected.
If he didn't use both hands, he had the strong feeling he'd tire out before he could swing it even a few times.
That was no good.
A sword was something you'd have to use with an enemy right in front of you in real combat.
Without even having to guess, he knew it would be twice as hard in a real fight.
Not to mention, he had no idea how long it would take to get used to it.
He was disappointed.
He'd spent his whole childhood drifting through back alleys and had grown used to all kinds of labor, so he had some confidence in his physical ability.
But seeing he couldn't even handle a sword properly made him want to sigh.
"It was originally made for women. As you can see, practicality was prioritized, so it isn't especially beautiful... but it's light enough that it should be easy for you to handle."
And that was supposed to be light.
Lawrence put the sword down without any lingering attachment.
He couldn't entrust his life to a weapon he couldn't rely on in a pinch.
The sword was out.
At least for now.
"Do you happen to have spears too?"
"Spears? We've got better ones than you'd expect."
With the look of someone who had just been offered a particularly good choice, Gazole smiled brightly.
He set the sword aside and took a spear from the rack.
"Unlike swords, spears don't require nearly as much time to master, and they're good weapons you can use right away in real combat. It's a shame more people don't know that."
"Is that so?"
"It's not for nothing that soldiers are issued spears as basic weapons. Try holding and using this one."
The spear Gazole chose was shorter than an ordinary spear.
The shaft was sturdy, and the tip gleamed sharp and bright.
In other words, a short spear.
He could probably think of it as a kind of short spear.
This wasn't exactly light either.
Still, compared to the sword he'd just held, it was much lighter.
More than anything, because it was used with both hands, it felt less burdensome.
If he were to use a spear...
Would it be thrusting, then?
He drove the spear hard toward empty space.
Whoosh.
A satisfying sound rang out.
Power was in the force. In the speed.
He hadn't actually stabbed a real opponent, but the weapon felt more than capable enough.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes. I'll take this one. Could you repair armor too?"
"Of course. This is a smithy, isn't it?"
Lawrence took off the leather armor he was wearing and showed it to him.
The leather armor Lenard had given him was worn and frayed in many places, and it looked like there was a limit to how much use it could still stand in its current condition.
"Hm... I'm sorry, but wouldn't it be better to buy a new one?"
"Is it hard to repair?"
"No. If we did repair it, there's nothing saying we couldn't. But in this state, buying a new one would be a lot cheaper."
"I see. Then show me the leather armor."
He let go of the attachment.
Besides, unlike the robe Edith had tailored for him, the leather armor hadn't fit his body all that well to begin with.
He felt sorry toward Lenard, but if he was going to entrust his life to protective gear, it was better to have something sturdier.
He bought the spear and leather armor Gazole recommended as a set.
The total came to 1 silver and 30 cooper. Of that, he haggled the last 30 cooper down and paid a clean 1 silver.
Having finished preparing as much as he could for now, Lawrence returned to the inn.
He ate dinner in his room, then filled the tub with cold water and used Fire to warm it before soaking himself in the bath.
As he surrendered his body to the warm water, the fatigue piled up inside him seemed to melt away and drift off.
After sending the old weariness away, he lit a candle.
He left the window open a little.
The night air creeping in from outside kept his drowsy eyes open.
Time to begin.
Lawrence gathered himself and focused.
Within the candlelight's shadow, Shadow rose.
He reached out and changed its shape into that of an arrow.
Only recently had he realized that doing something with his hands, even if they weren't really touching anything, helped more than simply leaving them idle.
It wasn't about physically grasping it; it was about helping his mind give form to what he imagined.
Maybe because it had been a while since he cared about anyone else's gaze, the shadow began to take the shape he'd been drawing in his head.
The blunt tip sharpened like a spearhead.
The shaft, which had been far too thick for an arrow, thinned out as well.
It looked almost exactly like the spear he'd bought from the smithy.
Lawrence swallowed dryly.
This was the important part.
How long could he maintain this shape?
And would the shadow-turned-arrow fly toward its target?
Aiming at the open window, Lawrence shot the shadow.
No—he only thought of it as a shot.
The shadow drifted weakly through the air, and before it could even reach the window, it vanished.
"......"
For a moment, disappointment flickered in Lawrence's eyes.
But it quickly turned to joy.
He'd done it.
However clumsy the result, he'd finally succeeded.
The tightly clenched fist he held was proof of the emotion surging through the boy.
He'd changed the shape of Shadow and seen a new possibility beyond it.
For now it was only barely capable of flying, but if he kept working at it, using it like a crossbow would surely be possible.
And not a single twinge of chest pain or headache had followed.
That meant one shot ought to be fine.
And that night, as if to celebrate Lawrence's achievement, his dream led him to a scene he had seen before.
...to the forest where he had met the red eyes.
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