Coffee Shortage in the Desert
"Got a good idea or something?"
"I do. Though whether we can actually pull it off... well, we'll find out when we try."
"Yeah? Then lay it out for me."
Rowell leaned in close and whispered his plan to me.
"Hmm... yeah... not bad at all..."
"Right? We give it a shot, and if it flops, we pivot. But if it works, nothing beats it."
"Fine. Let's try it tomorrow."
Early the next morning, Rowell and I headed straight to the Monster Garden to see Mideronde.
"Hey, Mideronde. You busy?"
Mideronde showed no reaction to my usual casual tone—in fact, it was Rowell who flinched. He was stunned that I'd so brazenly talk down to a pure-blooded elf like her, nose held high and all. And who could blame him? Ordinary folk rarely even crossed paths with elves, and when they did, the elves shut down any conversation flat. The damn species had egos through the roof. Temperaments aside, you could draw a straight line between elves and dragons on that front.
Mideronde, who was hanging laundry with magic, turned to look at me. Behind her, the clothes flapped like stingrays in the sea, drifting on their own to the clothesline and clipping themselves in place. Rowell stared at the spectacle, utterly entranced.
"What brings you here so early?"
"Open up another dimensional gate for me."
"A dimensional gate? To where?"
"You know Al-Jasha? That desert nation."
"Al-Jasha... wasn't that where the archdemon showed up?"
"There's a country nearby called Al-Behbad. Ring any bells?"
Mideronde paused, thinking, then nodded.
"I know it roughly. Heading there?"
"Yeah. Probably take a day or so."
Mideronde conjured a dimensional gate on the spot, and Rowell and I stepped through to Al-Behbad.
Al-Behbad was one of the desert nations in the central continent, right next door to Al-Jasha, site of that black magic massacre not long ago. Mideronde had dropped us precisely on the outskirts of the capital, so we hit the city streets in no time.
"Damn, it's hot."
"Sure is, sir."
Rowell and I wiped sweat from our brows as we walked. Scorching sun, sand-swept winds, mud-brick houses, sharp-featured locals in turbans. Lazy-eyed camels ambled down the roads, and hookah smokers eyed us foreigners with open curiosity.
"Around here, sir."
Rowell grabbed my arm and led me down a side street. This was the coffee alley he'd mentioned—the hub where wholesalers from the central continent dealt in their locally grown beans.
His pitch last night to slash coffee costs? Skip the middlemen entirely with a dimensional gate and buy direct.
Coffee wasn't pricey because it was rare or hard to grow. It was the insane distance from the central deserts to the western Verabche Kingdom that piled on distribution margins until it hurt. So why not have nations open gates for bulk transport? Simple: impossible. As we'd seen with the Monster Garden gate fiasco, popping one into foreign territory was basically an act of invasion. Hell, me slipping in here was technically illegal. But two guys? As long as we didn't get caught, no harm done. Individuals couldn't make it profitable anyway—mages charged a fortune per gate. I got it free because Mideronde had zero greed.
Anyway. Stepping into the coffee alley, I tilted my head.
"What is this, Rowell? This the coffee alley?"
"Yes, sir. But the coffee... where is it?"
The street was deserted. Stalls empty, not a soul in sight. I'd pictured sacks of beans piled like mountains, the air thick with roasting aromas.
"What the hell...? We didn't take a wrong turn, did we?"
"No way. This is it... hold on, sir."
Rowell flagged down a passerby and unleashed fluent desert tongue. The guy spoke desert? What the hell was this guy's deal? Some coffee-trading merchant shuttling between central and west? It fit—his coffee savvy, knowing the alley, the language.
"Hmm... sir, looks like there's a problem."
Rowell finished up, his face grave.
"He doesn't know the full story, but coffee supply's completely cut off."
"Coffee supply cut off? How? The central region's crawling with it."
"True, but..."
Rowell trailed off, scanning the barren alley.
"No clue what's going on. Hey, where's the mosque around here? Let's ask there."
"Smart—official sources first. I'll find it."
We asked around and located the mosque—equivalent to city hall back west. Turbaned guards at the gate blocked us, but Rowell chatted them up in desert speak, and they swung the doors open.
The desert city's mosque doubled as a temple, steeped in profound silence. Nothing like the west's chaotic mix of shouting petitioners and sighing clerks.
We padded down sun-dappled corridors into the main hall. A man in pristine white robes greeted us with a smile.
"Looks like the clerk. I'll handle it, sir."
Rowell conversed with him in desert tongue. The man frowned, shook his head, shrugged. Trouble communicating? Or bad news?
Rowell turned back.
"Sir, it's chaos."
"What kind? War break out?"
"No... this year's coffee crop's a total bust."
"What?"
Rowell, clearly skeptical himself, double-checked with the clerk. But the guy wasn't lying—Rowell furrowed his brow at me.
"Crop failure means no coffee hitting markets."
"Holy shit..."
"He says it'll hit the west soon too, since we're from there."
"Why'd the crop fail? Climate shift?"
"No idea. Trees just withered for no reason."
Rowell added a few more details from the clerk.
"Neighboring countries same deal. Might be tough drinking coffee this year..."
"Weird... what the hell? Trees withering everywhere? Hmm..."
"For now... ah! One sec, sir."
Something clicked for Rowell—he asked the clerk urgently. Skeptical but cooperative, the man scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it over.
"Sir, let's check this place."
"Where?"
"The estate of the capital's biggest coffee baron. Might have stockpiles in his warehouse."
"Nice. Let's go."
This guy Rowell had real business chops.
"So, you ever trade coffee back in the day? You know this place inside out."
Heading to the estate, I asked. Rowell smiled faintly.
"Not exactly... but handling coffee professionally, I've been here a few times. That's all."
"Huh. So you weren't just pouring it at some lord's castle."
"Something like that."
Rowell dodged with vague words. Definitely some untold history there.
We arrived at the spot the clerk indicated.
"Whoa, massive."
True to the title of baron, the estate sprawled endlessly. White walls stretching to the horizon, grand buildings bulging beyond. Heavily armed private guards stood vigilant at the gate.
Rowell smoothly explained our visit in desert tongue. Would they even let us in, showing up unannounced?
"Don't worry, sir. These folks never turn away guests."
Sure enough, a servant emerged and ushered us in.
The garden was vast. Tree fences, fountains, flowers, sculptures artfully arranged. Peacocks strutted; servants trimmed and tended. Straight out of a palace.
The main house gleamed in clean white stucco, majestic yet refined. Marble statues flanked the grand central stairs.
"Maybe I should've grown coffee myself."
Rowell chuckled softly at my quip.
The baron was a plump, kindly old desert dweller. His thick fingers, laden with heavy rings, gripped ours in a firm handshake before inviting us to sit on massive floor cushions. He bellowed something outside.
Rowell whispered to me.
"Sir, you have breakfast yet?"
"Nah."
"Good."
What the hell kind of random question was that right now? But soon enough, I got why he'd asked.