The Halfwit Halfling: A Bard's Tale, page 5
“In the spirits’ name, what are ye doing, lad?” Just my luck. Cook had to come back just as I picked up my fork. “I left ye for—” he looked around, “how long has it been?”
“Considering how long it takes potatoes to cook, more than an hour since you left,” I answered. “I’m sorry, Cook. I got hungry after finishing the onions. I didn’t know how long you’d be, so I made myself some food.”
The capper sighed, shaking his head. “That smells like my dried garlic,” Cook said. “Ye went through my cupboard.” I failed to maintain contact with his red eyes. Damn it. Why did I give in to my stomach? I had better self control on Earth. “I should’ve expected as much of a jovian. Yer lot think with their stomachs don’t they?”
“Don’t send me back the cell, Cook. I’ll do better.”
Instead of saying anything more, the capper took the fork out of my hands and sampled the steaming plate of savouriness.
“What do you call this?” he asked.
“Twice-baked potato.”
“It’s missing something.”
“Cheese?” I asked.
“That’s it!” Cook grinned. He dug a giant hunk of hard cheese out of his cupboard and sliced pieces of it onto the potato and ate another forkful. “I hate to admit it, lad, but maybe you’re the kitchen assistant I always needed.”
He clapped my shoulder and pushed one of the potatoes my way. Cutting off a bit, I tried it. The red spice had added a unique flavour I’d never tasted before.
『
Congratulations! You braved getting shanked in a capper prison and brought something new to Game World!
Cooking Mastery unlocked.
For creating something spectacular, you’ve gained a growth bonus beyond your natural skill level.
Cooking Mastery has progressed to Apprentice (Rank 5)
Control + 1
Perception + 2
』
No achievement? Surely creating a new dish had to be worth a little bit more. Still, I got a boost to the stats I needed. Maybe this new life wouldn’t completely suck after all.
“That’s just what I needed,” Cook said. “Tell me your name again, lad.”
“It’s Perry,”—I put on my best smile—“my mum owned a tavern,” I told him. “I’m just at the Apprentice rank, but tell me what you need, and I’ll get it done.”
Cook’s expression went placid. “You stay away from my spice cupboard, you hear me?” The change in tone took me by surprise. “I don’t care what you know, this is my kitchen, and you’re a convict. Step out of line again, and I’ll send you back to your cell.”
Chapter 7
All Hail the Chief
The twice-baked potato opened up dialogue with Cook, but he would only allow shorter conversations. So, I still didn’t get a chance to take Facts Begin With Fiction out for a test drive. I probably had enough Charisma for the likes of Gor but not Cook. When I gave the system some thought it made sense. The capper racial bonus included Perception and Cooking Mastery added to the stat as well.
Three days passed of me working in the kitchens, but I didn’t make any progress with Cooking Mastery or with Cook himself. I guessed once in the Apprentice ranks, chopping onions, peeling potatoes, and dicing carrots didn’t count for much. Neither did handling hot potatoes and refilling the skins with mash. Despite how much he enjoyed the twice-baked potato, he wouldn’t let me do any real cooking.
Instead, the capper had me teach him the details of my creation and made it himself for the prison staff. Once he learned the second cook gave the potato, it’s texture. He adapted the dish to cater to his people’s palettes. Gor and Warden both loved the dish. Cook took credit for it, but they both shot me a knowing look. Okay. Perhaps bringing Earth dishes to Game World would have to wait until after I got out of prison. I worried refuting my supervisor’s claims would get me sent back to my cell.
The facade lasted until a new authority figure appeared. On the third day of me working in the kitchens, the Capper Chieftain, Grog, came around for inspection.
“You’re stretching yourself too thin,” Grog said, walking into the kitchens with Gor and Warden hot on his tail. “I’ll talk to the shaman about getting more Mind Warding totems made. I don’t want you working seven days a week, Gor. You’ll kill yourself.”
“Our people just don’t know how to deal with her,” Gor replied. “With or without a totem, the lass be charming.”
“I know she’s a beauty, but don’t go falling for her,” Grog joked, nudging Gor with his elbow. “Coming from a man that married outside his species, believe me, you’re better off with a capper lass. Much as I love my wife, after years of dealing with the Shaman and her family, I’ve wondered if we’d have been better off not meeting.”
Both Gor and Warden went silent at the awkward revelation. Grog turned his attention to me. With Cook busy handling raw meat, I was responsible for taking the twice-baked potatoes out of the oven. It wasn’t much, but I was glad to have something to do besides working with raw vegetables.
“This must be the jovian cook I’ve heard so much about.” The chieftain wandered over and snatched a cooked potato off the tray. “Good on you for taking the shaman’s family down a notch. Was a stupid thing you did, but funny all the same.” He took a bite out of the potato, and his eyes widened. “What in the Spirit’s name is this?”
“A jovian delicacy, Chief,” Gor said before Cook could get his answer in. The tubby capper’s face reddened. “The lad brought a bit of home to Blacknail’s Table.”
Gor standing up for me all of a sudden took me by surprise. Did the residents of Game World believe in respecting intellectual property? On second thought, perhaps the concept was too advanced for my reality. Maybe he and Cook simply didn’t have the best of working relationships. Whatever it was, the capper had my respect.
Up close, I clearly saw the differences between Grog and his subjects. Not only did he stand taller and had the musculature of a bodybuilder, but he also had much clearer skin. Unlike the other cappers, he didn’t have any warty growths or patches of reptilian scales. Our skin only differed in complexion, and he wore his orange hair in a large mane-like fashion.
“It’s a shame Rungo passed, but you’ve finally got an assistant that can help you achieve greatness, Cook!” Grog turned to Gor. “I appreciate everything you do for this city and facility, but I want you to take two days off a week.” The chieftain clapped a massive hand on my shoulder, making me wince. “I’ve got your solution right here. On your days off, the jovian will make the rounds.”
Gor tried to protest the issue, but Grog ignored them. They moved on, leaving Cook to explode on me. Much to my surprise, he didn’t. Instead, the capper untied my apron and took it off me.
“Get out.”
“I didn’t say anything, Cook,” I said. “Don’t send me back to the cells.”
“How petty do you think I am?” He frowned. “Chief will tear me a new one if he finds out that I’m making prisoners work without a break. You’re off for the evening.”
“What am I supposed to do? I don’t have any money. Aren’t you afraid I’ll run away?”
“I don’t care,” he said. “There is only one jovian in the city and it’s you. Good luck going unnoticed and getting past the gate. Even if the spirits of good fortune shine their light on you, luck can only get you so far in the wilderness beyond.”
Despite his tone, Cook smiled at me. Maybe he was more than an angry old fart after all. I didn’t think they’d really let me roam freely. Perhaps this was my chance to get out, maybe put Facts Begin With Fiction to good use. Only, exiting the city wouldn’t be enough: I’d need transport to somewhere safe.
“Maka?” I whispered at the shadows outside the kitchen, “I think this might be our chance to escape.”
No response. The extra points in Perception didn’t help me see the details in the darker corners as I’d hoped. Didn’t matter, there had to be a spider somewhere in the darkness. Either Maka couldn’t hear me, or they’d chosen to ignore me. Did it lie to me? I should’ve known better than to put my trust in a damned spider. Its deal with Boots probably ended at getting me out of the damned cell.
“Maka?” I tried, once more.
I waited a couple of minutes before giving up hope. Not willing to waste Cook’s gift, I worked my way towards the exit. The low security in the dungeons surprised me. I only saw a handful of guards, and like Hruk and I, quite a few prisoners, were working around the prison. Only I had a shirt: they all wore grey trousers and occasionally a vest. Though their feet were much smaller than mine, they had no boots on. I recalled seeing some manner of footwear on all the free cappers.
It all made sense when I exited the building. If not for my desperation to figure out an escape plan, I’d head back into the building. I had on a ripe-smelling, off-white shirt, trousers, and a pair of suspenders; no jacket, cape, or any winter wear. Passing cappers looked at me confused or worried, most likely thinking I’d gone mad. Snow as high as my thick ankles blanketed the ground.
Then it occurred to me: Cook didn’t intend this as a break or reward. The tubby capper intended to punish, perhaps even kill me. Of course. Then he could claim the glory of the twice-baked potato for himself. Screw him. The system had recognised it as my invention. The world probably lacked patents, but if it did, I’d ensure everyone knew who made Game World’s first twice-baked potato. I planned on making it big in Game World. Music and potatoes. What more did a man need for fame?
Unfortunately, that would have to wait. It made sense why Cook made such warm and hearty food. The cappers likely relied on the stodginess of mashed potato and the warmth of black pudding to survive the harsh temperature. Fortunately, I wasn’t starving, just at risk of freezing to death.
It looked like dusk was approaching, and the streets were just starting to fill up. Were cappers nocturnal? In the dungeons, there had been no way of telling time and given my well-rested brain, several hours had passed since my attempted conversation with Maka. Either way, with people around, maybe I would find some shelter or warmth.
The majority of the people I saw around me were cappers. Among them, I spotted a few humans and the odd, hairy individuals from race selection. Most curious of the lot was the ugly grey-skinned man pushing an empty cart.
When our eyes met, he grinned, and it gave me the creeps. I don’t know whether it was his six-inch-long, hooked nose or the jagged, pointed teeth. Whatever it was, looking eye-to-eye with him, I felt like a deer staring down a bear. He reminded me of the bridge trolls out of old fairy tales, only shorter and uglier. Then, he lost interest in me and moved on, pushing his rickety wooden cart.
The prison stood behind me, built into a massive cliff wall. The rest of the city looked like a tribal settlement of titanic proportions. Only a handful of buildings were taller than two storeys. Made of stacked flat rocks and hastily nailed together pieces of wood, they looked like major safety hazards. Any city official on Earth—at least where I grew up, would slap a condemned sticker on the door and call for bulldozers to have them knocked down. And maybe even give a hefty fine for good measure at that.
The tents had sloping and rounded roofs to keep snow from collecting on top, and were arranged around communal fire pits. While wandering away from the prison, I encountered a roaring flame with only an older capper male sitting in front of it. After a little hesitation, I invited myself to his circle of warmth.
Chapter 8
Conjuror of Cheap Tricks
The capper raised an eyebrow at me, but he didn’t say anything when I took a seat. He shuffled away until we were on almost opposite sides of the fire. I didn’t think negatively of him. After all, I was a stranger not dressed for the weather. Looking at me, he probably thought I was either crazy or a vagrant. The fire’s warmth felt pleasant on my skin. I held out my hands, letting the heat do its job.
“What’re you doing here, jovian?” A young capper woman was standing behind my new aged friend, now. Distracted by the heat, I didn’t see which tent she came out of. “This isn’t a public fire.”
“I’m sorry, miss,” I said, trying my best to keep my teeth from chattering. “My warm clothes got stolen while I was napping. Do you mind if I stick around a bit to warm my bones? I promise I won’t be a bother.”
“I do. It’s breakfast time, and Gram doesn’t like guests during meals. You should be on your way.”
The older capper, probably Gram, jabbered at me but I didn’t understand a word. I already struggled with Scottish accents, and his lack of teeth didn’t help the situation. At least they didn’t guess my status as a convict straight away. Now that I thought about it, besides me, all the prisoners wore grey clothing. Perhaps it not only gave them away but also acted as a deterrent. No one in their right mind would want to escape into a frigid environment unprepared.
“That’s right,” the she-Capper continued, “the shaman has invited Gram for the morning spirit songs, and he wants to see the magicks. We don’t want a stranger making us late.”
I needed to change their minds. If all cappers were standoffish like them, I’d die of the cold. People were supposed to love jovians, but I didn’t feel loved. Maybe ‘loved’ ended at not being put down for trespassing. I needed the chance to put Fact Begins With Fiction to use, but they wouldn’t listen to what I had to say. Then, an idea struck.
“What if I showed you some magicks, then would you let me stay by your fire?”
Gram started speaking again, and like before, it all sounded like gibberish. When he finished the younger capper glared at me with her hands on her hips.
“I understood none of that.”
She rolled her eyes at me and sighed. “You’ve got to start wearing your dentures Gram.”
Gram’s reply was short and terse.
“I don’t care if the wood is uncomfortable,” she said. “I’m getting sick of being your translator. I have better things to do with my life, ye know.” The younger capper turned to me more irritated than before. “If you’re a shaman or Mage, or whatever your people’s version of a caster is, why don’t you magick yourself a fire and feck off, Gram says”
Gram egged her on. He had clearly said a lot more than that.
“You’re as far from a Mage as he is from aelf maiden. Gram is sure you’re going to pull some stupid trick and then demand the use of our fire. We don’t like squatters in this neighbourhood.”
“What if I prove him wrong, though?” I asked
Gram said a handful of words and broke out into laughter.
“Nothing you do will convince him to let you stick around. However, if you can pull something magical out of that plump jovian arse of yours, we’ll give you a jumper and a cloak if it’ll get you out of our hair.”
I couldn’t ask for a better deal. Gram looked convinced that he had called my bluff. The female didn’t look so sure. They weren’t wrong. I didn’t know any magic. Still, I had one trick up my sleeve, and I prayed to whatever entity reigned over the system, that it did not fail me now.
Summon guitar, I thought. It didn’t work. Great. Maybe I should have given this some thought first. I called forth my screens and flicked through them; the tooltip didn’t offer any help.
“Well?” She didn’t look particularly patient.
I tried it again to no avail. Perhaps the phrasing was off? Accio guitar. I thought, yet nothing happened. Abracadab-guitar? Nope, nada.
Okay. I needed to figure this out as soon as possible. Closing my eyes, I held my left hand out, picturing my old guitar. I recalled the feeling of the smooth fretboard against my palm. Barely half a week had passed since my fingers last danced across the strings, and I still felt the familiar vibrations against my skin. Most might think it silly, but I’d named the instrument after my late grandmother, Diya. My former body had the word tattooed on its right bicep in Sanskrit and ‘brown sugar’ on the left one—on account of my skin colour and inherent sweetness. I wanted Diya: I missed her.
It worked! A familiar weight appeared in my hands, and Diya felt no different from when I last held her. I opened my eyes and was pleased. It was indeed my old guitar. The strings looked a lot newer than the ones I prefered; they felt softer, as well. Probably for the best. My uncalloused fingers would likely be thankful for them.
Both Gram and the female capper were staring at me, their jaws hanging open.
『
You have named your relic: Diya.
By granting it a name, you have linked the relic to your Core.
It will passively feed on your Mana, but in turn, will grow at a swifter rate.
』
“What manner of magick was that?” she asked. “It was neither Creation nor Shaping, that much I’m sure of.”
I had no idea how the magic system of Game World worked. I guessed those were two of however many Schools of Magic. I didn’t want to give away my ignorance, so I flashed a cocky smile and hoped they didn’t demand a response. My mind was drawing a blank. Fortunately, Gram didn’t give me the time to answer. He fished a wooden pair of dentures out of his pockets and stuffed them in his mouth.
“I ain’t too proud to admit when I’ve been had, laddie,” he said. Gram’s speech was still a challenge to decipher. He sounded more Scottish than Gor but even better than before. He pushed himself upright and shuffled towards the largest of the tents. “C’mon then, let’s see what fits ye.”
“Gram, you can’t invite a stranger in!”
“Hush now, Klinkle. I’m four times your age. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
