Selcouth, God of Wanderers

Welcome to Fromburg

"It makes sense," I say to Samuel Swan, and it's true. I'm not on a cross country jaunt. I'm on a quest. More than that: I'm becoming an adventurer. (Perhaps the greatest adventurer. Only time will tell.) As for my supply of coins, let's just say that when my mom gave them to me they felt like a lot, more coin than I'd ever held, then I paid the innkeeper for my room and literally felt myself become poorer. How can anybody afford to live? "As long as you can honestly help me search for Eduard, I can't really say no to your offer."

"Excellent." He makes space on his desk. "I'll draft the contract of servitude—don't worry, that's just antiquated legal language. The profession does love its traditions. Really, consider it an employment agreement. And you write up a description of this thieving blacksmith you're after. Looks, of course, but also anything else that might help identify him. Land of origin, accent, taste in women, what he likes to order at the pub. If someone might ask him about it and he might let slip an honest answer, write it down. Add a picture too, if you can draw. Can you draw?"

Art is not one of my strengths. "Not well."

"Try."

He hands me a quill and I attempt to draw Eduard's head. An oval. Then his eyes. Two more ovals, sideways. Then his mouth. Another, larger, sideways oval and—

"A written description will do," says Samuel Swan, pulling the quill out of my hand. "I believe you said before that you were from a village. Were your parents egg farmers, by any chance?"

"No, why?"

"Simple curiosity. I had a client once who'd been held for decades in an underground prison. To keep track of time he started scratching exes into the walls of his cell with a sharp rock. By the time he was rescued, he'd covered every surface with exes. Exes upon exes upon exes. Afterwards, that's all he could write: x. Signed his name: x. Wrote the year: xxx. Had a daughter, named her: x. Get the picture? Eventually he wrote a book about his ordeal. Seven hundred thirty-three pages of exes. It caused quite the controversy but it sold like hotcakes. Now he lives off the royalties in a manor somewhere."

That's interesting. "But what does that have to do with my parents being egg farmers?"

"Oh," he says, looking at my aborted picture with its ovals. "Nothing. Forget it."

I go back to my description of Eduard, but I do more thinking than writing. There's not much I actually know about him. (If I was planning to steal someone's sword, I would also be tight-lipped about personal details. By which I reason that Eduard must have been planning to steal something, but he didn't know about the sword—right?—so he couldn't have been planning to steal it specifically.) When I'm finished, I hand the sheet of paper to Samuel Swan ("Please, call me Sam.") and he hands me back a rather short contract of servitude.

"Standard terms," he says.

I read it over and my eyes water. If lawyers are weasels, then can their writing be called weaselese? I do think that's rather clever of me. But, moving on: as I understand it, the contract says that I, Grom, agree to work for a Samuel Swan (Barrister & Solicitor) in the capacity of an "indentured assistant" by performing a selection of enumerated tasks (copying, delivering, seeing, speaking, enforcing, appearing "and any other reasonably expected activity") in exchange for which the aforementioned Samuel Swan shall compensate me. I shall work six days per week "at reasonable hours and at the employer's discretion." As part of my remuneration I shall be given "room but no board."

"My job description feels a little vague," I say.

"That's because I don't know exactly what you'll be doing. I've wanted to hire an assistant for some time—but I've no clear idea of what one does. I'm used to doing everything myself. But, here," he says, "let's add this: 'tasks to be reviewed on a bi-monthly basis and amended with the agreement of both parties.'"