Small-Town Crafter 7: Secrets of the Smithy: (A Low-Stakes Crafting LitRPG Series), page 1
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seve
n
Chapter One
The strangest letter I had ever received pressed against my palm as I journeyed from my house. It urged me to stop and look at it every few steps, even though there were many nicer things calling for my attention. The morning was heavily autumn flavored, and the town of Sunhampton around me was begging to be looked at. A flock of geese flew overhead in a white V, honking from the sky.
Douggie Fernglass, caretaker of Coiner’s Way, was stringing a banner across one side of the street to the other, readying for the ‘Hampton Cheese Festival that was still months away. This was a much-anticipated event not just for the wider townsfolk but especially for me, a self-confessed cheddar fiend.
Even with such a perfect morning unfolding around me in the little town I called home, I ignored it all.
In fact, it took all my effort not to keep lifting the letter to my eyes to sneak a look at it every few paces. Each time I gave in and studied the strange mail again, all I saw was the same, unopenable envelope. A question knocked on my head with the speed and ferocity of a woodpecker going to work on the trunk of a great oak tree: who would send me a letter I couldn’t open? What was inside it?
I gripped the envelope tighter and picked up my pace. Master Cooper will have an idea of what this is about. If I hurry up to the craftstead, I can make it in time for breakfast.
I carried the strange letter along Coiner’s Way, where the morning sunlight was faintly warming the cobbles, and the merchants were opening up their stores for the day. The smell of honey seed bread teased out from Rolls ‘n’ Dough, while the scent of sizzling sausages and frying bacon came from the Sunny Cafe and tried to tempt me toward it. I could almost feel it lifting the flap of my gold wallet and taking out my coins. Across the street, a dozen school kids on their way to school made a game of trying to trip each other up, laughing when they were successful. A girl with green pigtails and a backpack shaped to look like a shield waved at me. “Hi, Mr. Cooper!”
“Morning,” I said.
“Are you going to be visiting school soon?”
I thought about when I was next scheduled to inspect the artificed boiler and plumbing system I had installed at Sunhampton School. Whenever I went there to perform my quarterly checks, I was inevitably swamped by school kids asking me all sorts of questions about artificery.
“Not for a while yet.”
“Aww!” said one, before the gang moved away like a shoal of fish, as though some unspoken command had been uttered between them.
As I neared my store on Coiner’s Way, I saw that my new sales clerk, Ivor Lettise, was placing a chalkboard sign outside the door.
Ivor Harry Lettise was a large man with a big, broad chest that matched his even bigger heart. He wore his hair shaved close to his scalp and preferred a light black stubble to dot a jaw that was strong enough to crack walnuts with. He was a fun person to have around, being fond of a show tune or two and rarely working without singing his latest favorite under his breath – or sometimes over it. More than a few ‘hamptoners called into my artificery store and inquired about artificery they never intended to order, purely to stand at the counter and chat with Ivor for a bit. I didn’t mind, though; as long as customers kept coming and I had plenty of work to do, that was fine by me.
Ivor placed the chalkboard sign by the store door and studied it, arms crossed.
Wardrobes enchanted.
Cooking pans enhanced.
Work tools made magic.
Anything can be artificed for a price!
The chalkboard added to the feeling of unease that the letter had already sprouted in me. I realized I was clutching the letter so tightly in my right hand that the envelope should have folded out of shape, were it not artificed or spelled so that it sprang back like rubber. The discomfort that the chalkboard and letter stirred up in me was more than I usually liked to feel first thing in the morning.
The problem was that Ivor and I had talked about his chalkboard signs before, but I really didn’t have time to go over it again right now. All the same, the sign was technically lying to passersby. As a craftsman, nothing was more important to me than my integrity. Except for wearing goggles when I worked with my metal burner. Or wearing gloves when doing forge work. Or making sure I always had a healthy supply of ginger biscuits in the jar in my workshop.
Ivor smiled at me. He was lucky that he had such wide, bright eyes and a disarming smile because the rest of his appearance was - unfair or not - a little intimidating. Standing a hair short of seven feet tall and weighing as much as a horse, he was the sort of man you might send to smash down a castle door when you’d misplaced your battering ram.
This meant that – again, somewhat unfairly - he found himself struggling to find jobs that didn’t involve guarding tavern doors. People prejudged others, as much as they professed not to, and not even his good looks could open many career avenues to him that didn’t rely on his size. Of course, Ivor’s brief spell in Hattersdale Edge jail didn’t help.
“There’s just a little thing I’d like to get out in the open,” he’d told me at the beginning of his interview. “A small matter. You’ll think I’m silly for even mentioning it.”
“What is it?”
“I was arrested for ‘conspiring to steal gold from the crown,’” he said, making quotes in the air with his fingers.
His admission had prompted me into silence. I glanced down at my notebook, then back at the huge man with the shaved head sitting in front of me.
“Okay…” I said.
Ivor crossed his legs. “Now, that sounds worse than it is, I’ll grant you. I thought we’d been hired to actually guard the wagon, and when I realized I’d been duped, I ran into town and told the Hattersdale guards what was happening. They still thought I was part of it, though. They thought I was just trying to save my own skin. That was a long time ago now. Twelve years yesterday, in fact, though many think that’s still too soon. Does it bother you, Mr. Cooper? If it does, I’ll understand, and I’ll get up and leave now, no harm done.”
I thought about it for a few seconds and then answered, “I’ll be checking your references like I would with any other candidate. But as long as it doesn’t affect your ability to write down artificery orders and sell self-cleaning crock pots, then it doesn’t make a bit of a difference to me.”
I’d hired Ivor as a new store clerk to give Casey-Louise, my current clerk, more time to study for bard college. A dozen people had applied for the job, and many of them were extremely capable. Ivor, however, impressed me first with his honesty and then his attitude. Though not an artificer, he’d troubled himself to read several books about the craft before our interview and had gone as far as to visit Master Cooper at the craftstead and ask to watch him work for a few hours, not knowing that Jack Cooper was my own artificery master.
So far, hiring Ivor had been one of the best decisions I had made for a long time. The only issue, if it was even fair to call it one, was that Ivor’s enthusiasm for increasing my customer base bordered on crossing ethical lines. This wasn’t intentional in any way whatsoever; he just got carried away.
“Hullo, boss!” he said.
“Hey, Ivor. Listen, about that chalkboard…”
“What’s got you looking so glum today, mucker?”
Ivor was from Yerning, a seaside town on Easterly’s southernmost coast. Yerning was famous for its jellied dishes. They jellied everything down there; squid, eel, potatoes, pies, carrots. They also called each other ‘mucker’, ‘laddo’, and ‘lass’ as terms of endearment.
I didn’t mind him calling me mucker. I quite liked it, actually. I didn’t know what it meant or what a mucker was, but I enjoyed the sound of the word. All I asked was that he refrained from calling customers ‘mucker’ or ‘laddo’, so that we could have at least a vague sense of professionalism at Cooper and Cooper – Artificers of Renown.
I nodded at the sign. “We need to take the ‘everything can be artificed for a price’ off of it.”
Ivor studied the chalkboard, his eyes narrowing. “Everything can be artificed for a price,” he mumbled. “Well, what’s wrong with that?”
“Not everything can be artificed.”
“You sure about that, laddo?”
“Absolutely. Could I artifice a cat, for example?”
“A cat? Well, p’rhaps its collar could be made to tinkle when it…”
“I really admire your enthusiasm,” I said, once again feeling the urge to get to Master Cooper’s craftstead as soon as possible to discuss the letter. “I just want to make sure we stay on the side of honesty, that’s all.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to deceive people, Mister Cooper.”
“Of course not. You’ve just gotten carried away. I do the same, I get carried away so far that I forget where I am sometimes. Everything else about the sign is great. How about we change it to ‘most things can be artificed’?”
Ivor studied the sign.
He studied my face.
He studied the sign again.
He crossed his arms, making his huge bicep muscles threaten to tear his shirt sleeves open. It was at times like that, when I offered him constructive criticism, that I was reminded how Ivor could probably pick up most normal-sized adults and throw them over a tavern roof if he chose to.
Ivor broke into a wide grin and pointed his finger at me excitedly. “This is why you’re the boss and not me. I let the horse bolt before putting on its saddle, don’t I? Leave it with me, mucker, and I’ll sort that sign out quicker than you can catch a squid.”
“Thanks, Ivor. I’m heading to Master Cooper’s craftstead for a bit, but I’ll be back to start work on Mrs. Price’s ever-spice cauldron.”
“Got it. Question for you, boss.”
“What is it?”
He nodded at the letter in my right hand. “Why’re you holding that tighter than a monkey trying to strangle a goose?”
I glanced at the envelope. This prompted a sense of urgency in me and made me want to get off Coiner’s Way as quickly as I could so I could seek out expert help. The thing was, if I told Ivor about how it was sealed shut and nothing I had tried so far would open it, I’d find myself talking to him all morning. Ivor was absolutely fascinated with anything that was artificed, magic, or even vaguely mysterious.
“What can I say? I’m not a fan of getting mail,” I told him.
“If it’s another bill, then I sympathize. All I seem to get is bills. That, and letters from Uncle Hugh telling me which of my cousins has been arrested each week.”
“I don’t think it’s a bill,” I said. “And it’s definitely not a family letter. It’s stranger than that. It’s…”
“Mrs. Silver!” said Ivor, straightening up, hands on his hips, huge chest puffed out, addressing a lady across the street, “How you doing, lass?”
Mrs. Silver might have been sixty-three years old, but she blushed like a schoolgirl as she raised a shopping bag-laden hand to wave at Ivor. All the women in Sunhampton seemed to react the same way to him. Even Janey Morgan had gone all blushing and coy when I introduced her to Ivor, which had made Master Cooper laugh until he was choking on his ale.
“How’s your cat, lass?” Ivor called across the street. “Is he feeling better?”
Mrs. Silver, not wanting to waste a chance to chat with the big, handsome shop clerk, hurried across the street and toward us.
Sensing the opportunity, I slipped away from Ivor and Mrs. Silver and, letter clutched in my right hand, made my way toward the craftstead. I had gone just ten paces down the cobbled street before I stopped and turned around.
“Ivor!” I called out. “Make sure that you change the sign!”
Chapter Two
Leaving Coiner’s Way, I carried the strange letter all the way to the top of the steepest hill in Sunhampton, at the summit of which rested Master Cooper’s craftstead. Built by one of Master Cooper’s ancestors and lovingly expanded by members of each subsequent generation, it boasted not only his cozy house but an artificery workshop, an alchemy laboratory, various storehouses filed with magical materials, a kennel that was home to fourteen wolfhounds, and a pond occupied by a family of ducks.
Every time I walked over the summit of the hill and glimpsed my master’s workshop and house, I felt a warm swell of affection fill my heart. I had once thought that the novelty of seeing it would wear off, but now, I guessed it never would. This little house and yard might not have meant much to anyone else. A stranger in Sunhampton might see it and think nothing of it. To me, it had been where Master Jack Cooper had taken me in as a homeless kid with no family, no skills, and a bad attitude. This was a house where I’d spent countless hours dining with my friends. It was a workshop where I’d spent time beyond measure learning how to weave magic into everyday things.
When I took the strange letter into Master Cooper’s kitchen, I found him and my other friends in the middle of breakfast. Perfect timing, or what, I asked myself.
“Morning, everyone,” I said. “You can stop fretting and worrying; I’m here. Your morning is saved.”
Groans and hellos resounded from around the table. You never knew who would be eating breakfast at the craftstead. Today, there was Chris Crier, Phil Brownhill, Flo Anderson, Master Cooper, and Janey Morgan-Cooper. Judging from the aromas, it had been Phil’s turn to make breakfast. Phil’s day job was making model ships, which he sold from his boat that he sailed up and down the River Rumber. Every other weekend, though, Phil worked on a fishing boat called Tide’s Promise, which sailed along Easterly’s western coast to bring in huge, netted hauls of mackerel, herring, and cod.
The pay was terrible, the conditions even worse. It was hard work, he never tired of explaining. ‘Harder work than any of you land lubbers will ever see, that’s for sure.’ Rare was the Sunday evening when he didn’t return home from a weekend of boat work stinking of sweat and fish, feeling exhausted beyond measure, with his skin red raw from the constant drenching of salt water.
Above that, though, the thing that was most apparent upon his return from each trip was the look of contentment on his face. Not just a normal, ‘relaxing on a Sunday afternoon with a good book’ kind of contentment, but something deeper. The satisfaction of a person who had found what nourished their soul, and had begun to make recipes featuring it.
What this also meant was that when it was Phil’s turn to cook breakfast, it was invariably smoked fish of some kind. With a part-time job like his, he never lacked fish to cook.
“Smoked mackerel today, my friend,” he said, upon seeing me. “Sit your arse down and grab yourself a plate.”
After taking a seat between Chris and Phil and helping myself to a cup of coffee and some smoked mackerel and tomato-chili chutney on toast, I showed them the letter.
“It was waiting for me on my deck this morning. Sitting there, looking all innocent.” I glared at the letter again, narrowing my eyes at it. “Suspiciously innocent.”
“What’s so strange about a letter?” asked Chris.
“For one thing, I never get mail at home.”
“Not ever?”
“Well, rarely. Business mail goes either to our store or the craftstead. Connor Perry asked if he could just deliver all my personal stuff to the store, too. Saves him having to walk all the way to the River Friend.”
“Lazy,” grumbled Master Cooper. “He has the nerve to increase postage prices, and then can’t be arsed walking to deliver things.”
Chris eyed the letter. “So, you got a letter sent to your house today, huh? I’ll tell the Sunhampton Chronicle. This has first page written all over it.”
There was silence for a few moments as we all got down to the serious business of eating breakfast. The only people missing today were my girlfriend, Ophelia, and my other friends, Paisley and Jester. Ophelia was busy in a show in Full Striding, as usual, and Paisley and Jester were already at work.
Even so, it was a crowded table. You’d have thought it might have been an imposition, having such a big gang of us all there at the craftstead for breakfast. Master Cooper certainly grumbled about it enough. Janey Morgan-Cooper, though, had given us a long-standing invitation. Anyone was welcome to show up for breakfast at eight o’clock prompt as long as we took it in turns to provide the grub and we all helped clear up afterward. Toast, jams, bacon, fruit juice, pastries - there was no rule on what you brought when it was your turn, only that you brought something. We never knew who was going to be at breakfast or what we’d be eating, which added an element of pleasant surprise to the start of each day. The only sure thing was that there would always be a seat at the table for anyone who wanted one.
I jabbed my finger on the envelope, leaving a deep impression on the surface. Its rubber-like texture sprang back.
