Of Caverns and Casters ✓ [TLRQ #1]

Chapter 28 - Sean

Fake. Pretty, but fake.

From far away, the glittering gold gates and shining marble arches almost fool me. Then we get closer to our potential new workplace. With a glance, I see that the arch is actually made of mrablin, a cheap, easily deteriorated rock that only looks like marble. And something about the way the gold gleams strikes me as strange. As we pass one of the gate doors, my hand brushes the metal. Like I expected, a small amount of the color rubs off on my fingers. Flecks of paint.

I shake my head. This was too easy to figure out.

Riveirre tilts her head, glancing between me and the gate. I stuff my hands into my pockets and ignore her. We walk up to the entrance and knock on the door. It swings open on well-oiled hinges.

A man stands there in a pressed uniform. "Business?" he inquires imperiously.

"Here for a job. Marcí said you had an opening. Sent this." I lift the letter.

"Mrs. Marcí Dae?"

"Are there a lot of Marcí's in your fantastically large hamlet?"

He narrows his eyes and takes the letter. Giving a single glance to the envelope, he hands it back. "I don't deal with personnel. You'll have to find the steward for that."

"Well, where's the steward then?"

Behind me, Riveirre murmurs in Errelian, "Quit being rude."

I glance over my shoulder. "What? I'm just asking where the steward is."

The butler clears his throat. "I doubt the likes of you are going to last long here, but it'll be fun to watch you get thrown out at least. The steward is in the council hall, getting things organized for tomorrow's meeting." He steps back, letting us in. "Through that door, two halls down, third room on the left."

I start off.

Back in Xela, there was a fair every year where a bunch of people dressed up like they were from the town's history. A lot of them dressed as simple folk—pioneers, farmers, blacksmiths—but some dressed like they were the people that were going to oversee the place. Crisp cotton suits, tailed jackets, intricately carved wooden buttons.

This is what I think of when I see the man evidently in charge of whether we get a job. His outfit bears enough likeness, and with his fair hair slicked back and the self-important, smug smile he sports, he's a carbon-paper copy of those fair-goers. He stands in the center of the large room, directing a flurry of people. "Those chairs need to be in line, Emmrick, not zig-zagging back and forth like some drunkard."

He turns to two men carrying a large potted plant onto a dais that faces the chairs. "What addle-brain told you two to bring that monster in here? With it and the podium, where do you expect the councilmen to stand? Ankle-deep in soil? Get that out of here!"