The Somewhat Mad Saintess (1)
A few construction contractors arrived in Rosens. They were carpenters and other skilled workers who'd seen the fence-building notice I'd posted via Mollo. I went out to the empty lot with them, surveyed the site, and discussed the fence type and details.
The contractors recommended brick walls or wooden palisades, but those were prone to collapse and a pain to repair once damaged. What I wanted was wooden posts about two to three meters tall driven in at regular intervals, connected by thick iron wire in a net-like pattern. On top, I'd cover it with a rounded iron mesh slathered in sharp glass and porcelain shards glued with glue. This was a common setup for legion outposts—maybe not the strongest, but I wasn't planning any territorial wars. It just needed to keep out casual thieves. Plus, putting up wire mesh would let me fulfill my promise to sell the blacksmith's goods.
The contractors' faces darkened at that; they'd been hoping to profit off material costs. We haggled over prices, and I sent them off with a promise to get back to them. There were plenty more fence builders in Bue, and others would surely come. I'd go with whoever offered the fairest deal.
As expected, a few more teams showed up shortly after they left. Later, I sat alone crunching the numbers and picked the best one. Mollo happened to drop by, so I asked him to relay the message to my chosen contractor on his way back to Bue: get started right away. I sent him off with a signed contract copy, the down payment, and a generous tip for his trouble.
Mollo was thrilled when he saw the tip amount. With the inn still short-staffed and Rosens' administration not fully sorted, he was my only regular link to Bue. Had to keep him happy.
A few days later, laborers arrived with several large wagons loaded with timber. After a final meeting with me, they got right to work unloading.
The workers glanced curiously between the stone statue in the lot and me. Thick, long wooden poles—nearly four meters, sharpened at the ends—were laid out evenly around the perimeter.
I figured they'd climb ladders and hammer them in. Sure enough, they pulled out ladders. Two guys held the post upright from below, while two more climbed up and took turns pounding it with massive wooden mallets.
How the hell are they gonna finish dozens of these the hard way? The hammermen came down exhausted after a few swings, tagging out the guys below. At this rate, they'd collapse before even stringing the wire.
Couldn't watch anymore. I stepped up.
"Hey, uncle. Lend me a ladder."
"What for?"
"I'll give you a hand."
He handed it over with a baffled look. I told one worker to stand the post and brace it with his shoulder. Then I climbed up and slammed my fist down on the top.
A thunderous boom rang out. Everyone froze and stared.
A few punches later, a third of the post was buried deep.
"What in the world..."
They crowded around, faces slack with shock, shaking the immovable post.
"What kinda guy are you? Some Adat half-breed?"
"The purges wiped out the half-breeds thirty years ago. Nah, just strong."
"Just strong? You should be in the legions, not running an inn out here."
I just grinned and made the foreman an offer.
"I'll drive all the posts. Knock some off the price."
"Y-Yeah... deal."
Dazed by the spectacle, he agreed on the spot. I pounded them in effortlessly, saving a bundle on labor. By midday, dozens of posts ringed the lot at perfect intervals.
Next up: weaving thick iron wire between them like a net, then topping with the spiked mesh. I'd pre-ordered the wire and mesh from the smithy and stockpiled it in the lot. I'd anticipated this when the first estimators came, so by now—a week later—the supply was ready.
The blacksmith hadn't forged it all solo, of course. He'd brought his apprentices when he moved here, and Rosens' forge was equipped for mass production. He'd whipped them into shape to meet the quota.
I'd stopped by yesterday; the place was buzzing under a fancy new sign: "Anvil of the Gorge." Spotting me, the smith rushed out, wiped his grimy hands on his pants, shook mine vigorously, and bowed repeatedly—promising top quality and begging for more work anytime.
Who'd expect a massive order right after relocating?
Come lunchtime during wire work, the laborers filed into the inn. No proper shops or eateries in Rosens yet, so they bought meals here.
"Welcome!"
Della's blonde hair bounced as she greeted them brightly. Their eyes bugged out. A sweet-smelling beauty popping up out of nowhere? No wonder.
"Today's special: migas fried in olive oil with bread, veggies, and meat. Drinks?"
She smiled warmly, waiting.
"Uh... well..."
A young worker flushed crimson, stammering. Della blinked, meeting his gaze—he ducked his head.
"Just... beer."
"Right away. Thank you!"
Another managed to order. Della spun away with a fresh grin, her hair flaring up in a soapy-scented wave. They zoned out till the beers arrived.
As lunch picked up, the door flew open. Idwild burst in panting, huge breasts heaving, slumped against the wall.
The workers, just recovering from Della's charm, gawked slack-jawed at the jaw-dropping chest.
Idwild wiped sweat from her brow, gasping. Raising her arm exposed dark-stained underarms and cleavage. She'd sprinted from City Hall, maybe.
"What happened?"
"Ran into a priest..."
"Priest?"
"In town... a priest..."
Hildeva had mentioned priests being dispatched. Rosens had a big temple; with the city reviving, it made sense. Sure, they'd bailed during hard times and only now showed—hardly saintly—but that's the church for you.
Looks like they'd finally arrived.
"So you bolted?"
"You want me caught and tortured?!"
"Tortured? Black mages aren't illegal."
Idwild hesitated. "The Sansa sales..."
"You ever get busted for that?"
"No... but just in case..."
"Go change. You're soaked."
I shoved her toward the stairs. Her back glistened with sweat. Even a black mage, scared like a dog from a tiger?
Soon Idwild returned changed and helped Della. Guests' eyes ping-ponged between the pair.
From the bar, it felt surreal. One nearly became a whore thanks to her dad; the other toyed with shrunken heads in a basement. Now they shone in a bright inn hall, drawing admiring stares.
Attention wasn't all bad, but I hoped no creeps caused a scene or started a brawl over them. Tavern wenches sparked fights aplenty. Broken anything would suck.
Then the door opened: Hildeva. She rarely visited for meals lately, so I waved happily.
She flashed a flirty smile—then a few followed her in.
"Gasp!"
Idwild inhaled sharply and bolted upstairs.
White-robed priests: a middle-aged chief priest and a young novice.
Priests outranked civil admins informally—Verabche bowed to church influence. Hildeva was probably escorting the new arrivals, showing them around and treating to lunch.
I hurried over first. "Welcome. Bertrand, innkeeper."
"Chief Priest Frisio." The elder spoke for them.
"'Upright Faith'—fine name."
They blinked; Hildeva mouthed an impressed 'o'.
"You know Holy Tongue?"
"A bit."
"Bertrand, these are the priests dispatched to our city. Lunchtime hit during the tour. Possible?"
"Of course. This way."
I led them to a fancy round table in the corner. As they sat, an angry shout erupted outside.
"Outta the way! Move!"
I checked: a saintess glaring at Kali, who wagged happily, blocking her.
"Move it?!"
More one-sided ranting—she feared dogs. I called sternly: "Kali! Here!"
He trotted over instantly.
"Sorry. He loves people too much. Come in."
I nudged him off my leg with my foot, apologizing. But the saintess stared oddly.
"What's the dog's name?"
"Kali."
"The god of the hunt?"
"Yeah."
She shrieked: "Blasphemy!"
