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Chapter 12: Negotiations
🕑 Added 2025-05-23 13:24:52 +0000 UTCBurtrand’s eyes widened. “Wait, you’re a—”
Rylan held up a finger to his lips, glancing nervously at the various entrances to the room.
Burtrand blinked, hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “All right, give me a second, then I’ll lead you somewhere we can talk.” The man then stuck his head out the door that led to behind the bar. “Eli! Would you mind closing up tonight? I need to take care of something.”
Rylan couldn’t quite make out the reply, but it sounded affirmative, and Burtrand was already moving again, heading for another door that read ‘Private, Staff only.’ “Come on, this way; bring your tea!”
Grabbing his backpack and his tea, Rylan hurried after the man.
Burtrand led him down a hallway to a staircase, up to a landing with several doors, then confidently strode to one of them and opened it up.
Passing through the door after him, Rylan found himself in a short hallway that led into a cosy living room with furniture and curtains in matching green hues. It smelled like scented candles and bitter tea.
Burtrand turned around, rubbing his hands together with an eager look on his face, but waited for Rylan to close the door before he spoke. “Please, take off your shoes, milord. Make yourself at home, I insist!”
Rylan put down his backpack and took off his boots and coat, but kept his cowl on to hide his hair for now. “You have a lovely home, Mister—I mean, Burt.”
“Thank you! Here, have a seat. We should be able to talk freely here. My wife is staying over at her sister’s house tonight—helping with the newborn—so you don’t have to worry about the noise, and there’s no one around.”
[He’s telling the truth, Boss,] Arphin confirmed as Rylan sat down on the indicated couch, curiously glancing at the many little knick-knacks on shelves around the room. [About there no one being around, I mean. I don’t know about his wife’s sister’s newborn and all that, but I don’t really see why he’d lie about that.]
“So,” Burtrand said, after sitting down himself as well. “You say you have the Cooking Skill, meaning you’re a Quinthar... but you don’t want people to know?”
Rylan took a moment to think about how much he was willing to reveal. “There are some people... looking for me,” he started cautiously.
Burtrand’s brows drew together. “Oh?”
“It’s nothing serious,” Rylan lied. “Just a matter regarding some outstanding debt. They’re, uh, trying to leverage me into a poor deal.”
Burtrand’s eyebrows relaxed again. “Ah. So even esteemed Quinthar as yourself can experience such troubles, eh?”
“Tell me about it,” Rylan muttered.
The man laughed heartily, but his eyes remained focused on Rylan, staring intently even as he quieted down again. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, licking his lips. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but... before we talk about employment, I am going to need to see a little proof,” he said apologetically. “It’s not that I don’t believe you are what you say you are, but my wife would kill me if I hired someone without doing my due diligence.”
Rylan nodded. “No, of course, that’s no problem.” He cocked his head sideways, considering the easiest way to prove his status. Finally, he decided to simply demonstrate the next step in his mana control training.
He lifted his hand in front of him, palm facing up. Then, closing his eyes, he sent his attention to the ball of warmth below his sternum; his Mana Pool.
He gently teased a small stream out of it—about 0.1 points of mana—and worked it up his arm. Finally, when it got to his hand, he took and held a deep, trying not to scrunch up his face as he focused fully on maintaining control over the small wisp of mana while he pushed it out of his palm and through his Mana Shell.
Thankfully, he managed the feat. He hadn’t done this in a day or two, and it would’ve been rather embarrassing to fail the exercise with an audience.
Finally, he collected the small wisp of mana into a ball—well, a shapeshifting glob, to be perfectly honest—and kept it over his palm as he opened his eyes.
Burtrand was staring at his display of rather mediocre mana-shaping skills in wonder.
Feeling a little embarrassed, Rylan released his control, allowing the mana to dissipate, and dropped his hand. “If you want me to demonstrate the Cooking Skill itself, I’ll need a cutting board and some ingredients.”
Burtrand vehemently shook his head. “Oh no no! That won’t be necessary, milord—I fully trust that you’re telling me the truth.”
Rylan shifted a little in his seat. He was still not used to being called that. In fact... “You can drop the honorifics; if I’m to keep a low profile here, I wouldn’t want them to slip out at the wrong time. Just address me like you used to.”
Burt blinked, then smiled. “Well, if you insist... Ryles.”
“I do. So... would you be willing to hire me?”
Burt folded his hands together, sitting up a little straighter. “Look, I’ll be honest; Quinthar chefs are a rare commodity, and I would be absolutely thrilled to have you on my team. However, you have to understand that I can’t afford to pay the kind of salaries you might get working in one of the fine dining establishments of the middle ring.”
Relief flooded Rylan’s heart. “That’s fine. Money is a secondary concern for me at the moment, compared to staying out of sight.” Seeing the glint in Burtrand’s eyes, he quickly backtracked a little. “I mean, I do have that debt to pay off, of course...”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Burtrand said, rubbing his hands together. “You’ll still be well compensated. In fact, if we play this right, we both stand to profit quite a bit! We can charge a premium for any meal you make!”
Rylan felt the need to manage expectations. “Just to be clear, I only gained the Cooking Skill recently; it’s not very developed yet. For now, it only allows me to make meals that provide additional stamina, and have a minor effect of speeding up physical recovery. My cooking doesn’t actually taste better or anything. At least, not yet.”
The man snorted. “Won’t matter a whit; people will come to eat your food just for the status of it, and they’ll claim it’s the best thing they’ve ever tasted even if you served them sheep’s dung! Also don’t sell yourself short, kid, those effects are pretty amazing.”
Rylan frowned. “Well, that’s nice, but I do want to actually give people what they’re paying for. And unfortunately, I won’t be able to use my Skill on all the meals I make; I don’t have the mana reserves for that.”
Burtrand nodded thoughtfully. “All right, I see where you’re coming from, and I respect that. Truthfully, not everyone would be able to afford the extra charge anyway... Ooh, how about this: we’ll promote the food in general as all having been touched by a true Quinthar Chef, and promote your true mana-infused meals as the chef’s specials, at a substantial mark-up! I can see it now: an extra-hearty breakfast that will energise for the whole day and take care of all the little aches and pains, or a filling three-course meal for dinner that will keep one going all night! Son, you’re going to be a hit!”
Rylan swallowed nervously. “You really think so?”
“Definitely!”
Perhaps he hadn’t thought this through entirely. “You know, I’m just wondering if this is such a good idea,” he admitted. “Since I’m trying to keep a low profile and all...”
“I can offer you thirty silver florins a season,” Burtrand said, his eyes fervent as he stared at Rylan. “That’s the salary of a line cook in our establishment—plus free room and board, and half the mark-up for each special we sell as a bonus!”
Rylan fought to keep his expression somewhat neutral.
He’d known salaries in the city were higher than what he was used to on Thistlebloom, but thirty silver was almost six times what the Thistlethorns had paid him, and that had been before they subtracted his living costs!
Quinthar really have it too good...
He gritted his teeth, his mind racing as he weighed his options. “And what would we do if people asked to see the chef?”
“We’ll just tell them you refuse to meet customers! In fact, we could make up this persona of some mysterious Quinthar hermit who doesn’t like to talk to people, and use that for branding. We’ll call him... Chef Ironbeard. That way, even if people try to sneak in to try catch a glimpse of him, they’ll never suspect it’s you!”
Rylan cocked his head. “Wouldn’t it cause trouble if you claim to have a Quinthar chef in service, and no one ever saw them?”
Burtrand shrugged. “I don’t really see how, to be honest. Especially if we’re only selling your actual Skill-made meals as specials. Other Quinthar should be able to tell they’re legitimate, right?”
Rylan took a moment longer to consider, as Burtrand sat across from him, clearly fighting to stay silent and let him think.
‘What do you reckon, Arphin?’ Rylan sent through their connection.
[Well, Cooking is obviously inferior to Knife-Throwing,] Arphin said. [But I do like that thing he said about money. It’s pretty neat stuff, and I feel like we should have more of it.]
‘I couldn’t agree more, Arphin.’
“I’m going to need a place to practise my other Skills,” is what he said out loud. “Somewhere private, with a bit of space.”
Burtrand’s eyes lit up. “We have a back patio! In the warmer seasons, we use it for additional seating, but in the colder ones it’s mostly for employee breaks. If you extend the awning, it’s about as private as things get in this city.”
“Excellent,” Rylan said, extending his hand. “Then you’ve got yourself a deal, Mister Sunkenship.”
Burt enveloped Rylan’s hand in his own with a wide grin. “Welcome aboard, Chef Ironbeard!”
Rylan flopped down on his bed—an actual wicker bed!—washed, dressed in clean clothes, and utterly exhausted.
The room Burtrand had shown him to was small, but the man had promised that was temporary, while they cleared some space for him in a bigger one.
They would sign a contract tomorrow—a regular one, without any Talon involvement—and then he would get started.
He’d actually done it. He’d moved to Cliffport and gotten a job. It didn’t feel real.
Granted, he didn’t have identity papers to pass through the gates with, and couldn’t show his face in public as there was a massive bounty on his head, but still. Things were looking up.
He was a little worried about meeting his colleagues, but he figured the odds of any of them regularly studying the city’s wanted posters was slim. And if worst came to worst, Arphin could tip him off and he’d run.
He really hoped he wouldn’t have to, though.
I have to write Zahra!
But that, too, could wait for the morrow.
As Rylan’s eyes slowly fluttered shut, his last thoughts were of his friends, and what they were up to.
Author's note:
Thanks for reading! ^^
