TALENT BEYOND LIMIT: Stacking Many Talents

Their patrol route was suspiciously pleasant.

Joe realized this on the second day.

By the fifth, he was certain.

The eastern merchant streets were broad and swept regularly. Wealthier houses stood behind walls topped with tiled roofs, with servants entering through side gates and small trees visible above courtyards.

The blackstone paving here was smoother than in the outer district.

Drainage channels ran beside the road.

At night, oil lanterns hung at regular intervals.

Their greatest crisis during Joe’s first week involved a merchant furious because a wagon had blocked the entrance to his cloth shop.

Simon made the driver move.

The merchant complained for another ten minutes anyway.

Another morning, they found a crying boy who had wandered away from his mother.

Cole bought him a steamed bun.

The mother arrived shortly afterward and nearly struck the child herself.

Simon intervened in that dispute too.

Joe finally asked Daren while Simon was inspecting shop permits.

”Is this one of the easiest routes?”

Daren looked at him. ”One of them.”

”Why do we have it?”

Daren smiled. Joe waited. The man nodded toward Simon. Joe looked over.

Simon was arguing with a fruit seller about whether crates could extend into the roadway.

Joe understood less than before.

That evening Simon showed him Blackwood properly.

They began near the guard compound.

”Don’t buy food beside the southern gate,” Simon said. ”They charge travelers more.”

”How much more?”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on NovelPhoenix. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

”Depends how stupid you look.”

”So, you paid extra.”

”Once.”

Joe smiled.

Simon pointed toward a narrow lane.

”Cheap noodles there. Good broth. The dumpling shop beside it isn’t worth the price.”

”You’ve studied this seriously.”

”Someone has to know things.”

The outer district was crowded and noisy.

Timber houses leaned close enough across narrow lanes that upper windows nearly faced one another. Laundry hung between buildings. Children played beside drainage ditches. Men sat outside cheap drinking houses before sunset.

Several alleys smelled of smoke, old cooking oil and waste.

Yet even there, life was not uniformly miserable.

A woman grew flowers in clay pots along a second-floor ledge.

A carpenter had carved tiny animals beside his doorway.

Children turned a broken wagon wheel into a game that seemed to require screaming every few seconds.

Joe liked those details.

Poor did not mean lifelessness.

They continued inward.

The streets widened. Paint returned to doors. Glass appeared. Carriages became more common.

The main market occupied an entire square where colored awnings overlapped until only narrow pieces of sky remained visible.

Roasted chestnuts cracked in shallow pans.

A woman sold ribbons.

A bookseller displayed cheap stitched pamphlets beside bound volumes protected carefully from dust.

Joe paused longer there than he intended.

”You can read those now,” Simon said.

”I know.”

”Still expensive.”

”I also know that.”

Black family influence appeared most obviously around the medicine district.

A black-leaf emblem appeared on several storefronts.

Behind them stood warehouses where porters carried bundles of dried roots, bark, flowers and fungus.

The entire street smelled medicinal.

Sharp bitterness.

Earth. Smoke. Dry leaves. Something almost mint-like.

Farther west, Francis’s businesses dominated smithies and weapon shops.

Joe stopped in front of a display window holding six finished swords.

Real weapons. Balanced steel. Decorated hilts.

Prices that exceeded months of his salary.

Simon followed his gaze.

”Alex got his new sword through the Commander.”

”Free?”

Simon laughed. ”No.”

Joe looked again.

Alex’s position interested him. ”He actually leads patrols?”

”When Tomas doesn’t need him. Squire isn’t sitting behind the Commander all day. Alex trains with him, carries messages, attends important things and sometimes leads a team.”

”And he reached Muscle Tempering?”

Simon nodded.

”A while ago.”

There was a trace of irritation in his voice.

Joe looked at him. ”You tried talking to him.”

”I know him.”

”Apparently he disagrees.”

Simon frowned.

”He remembers me.”

Joe decided that was kinder than answering.

They eventually passed a narrow street where the shops changed again.

Windows were smaller.

Signs less direct.

Men standing near entrances watched pedestrians rather than merchandise.

”What is this?”

Simon lowered his voice.

”Don’t come here at night.”

”Why?”

”Black market.”

”Actual black market?”

”Some stolen goods. Smuggled medicine. Gambling. Weapons without proper records. Things people don’t want the magistrate asking about.”

”You’ve been?”

Simon looked offended.

”No.”

Joe waited.

”Not often.”

Joe laughed.

Night changed Blackwood again.

Lantern light reflected on blackstone polished by generations of wheels. Eating houses filled with voices. Carriages still moved through central roads long after Green Hollow would have gone quiet.

Music drifted from somewhere above them.

Joe stopped briefly near a fountain. ”Do you ever get used to this?”

”Mostly.”

”Mostly?”

Simon looked toward a vendor still selling meat skewers.

”Sometimes I still can’t believe you can buy cooked meat this late.”

Joe smiled.

That sounded like home.