The Archmetamagician: The Weave Collapses Again

Early in the morning, Silver Scale Bay awoke from its slumber. People came and went, lively and bustling.

There was almost no nightlife here—people went to bed early and rose early as well.

The small town was laid out along the bay, long and narrow, curving like a crescent moon. A single main street wound through the entire town; this was the widest and busiest street in Silver Scale Bay.

Both sides of the street were lined with all kinds of shops. Fragrances, fishy smells, and odd odors mixed with the sea breeze and rushed straight into people’s noses.

”What is this? How much are you selling it for?” Bratt stopped in front of a small shop. A halfling was hawking a colorful dish, its aroma rich and enticing.

”Halfling mixed stew, sir.” The halfling’s accent was rather strange, but his tone was enthusiastic. ”Chicken broth with hand-shredded chicken, onions, potatoes, red bell peppers, corn, carrots… absolutely delicious—only 9 copper coins…”

”And this one?”

”Oat sweet cakes, 4 copper coins each. You know how it is—prices are going up everywhere…” The halfling spoke very quickly, his words running together and hard to make out.

”Three mixed stews and six sweet cakes.” Bratt had just gotten his share of some ”ill-gotten gains” and was feeling flush with cash.

”Please wait a moment, sir.” The halfling took the money, his pitch rising several notches.

The mixed stew had broth, so the halfling folded large, unknown leaves into round bowls to hold it. The sweet cakes were also wrapped in leaves—easy to hold without burning the hands, and carrying a faint, grassy fragrance.

”Eat it while it’s hot.” Bratt handed the food to Anser and Finn.

”Haven’t you already eaten?” Anser waved his hand, taking only a single sweet cake.

The sweet cake was not even as large as his palm, about a finger thick, golden in color. One bite filled his mouth with a rich oat flavor and a creamy aroma.

Still, selling something this small for 4 copper coins was frankly a bit of a rip-off. Most laborers could earn only a few copper coins a day; at current prices, that was not even enough to cover a meal.

”Breakfast at Moonshadow Quelin is too small a portion, too plain—this is much more satisfying,” Bratt complained.

”Yes.” Finn strongly agreed.

Breakfast at Moonshadow Quelin was free, but it was only bread, pumpkin, and herbal tea—one portion per person, and once it was gone, it was gone. Bratt and Finn simply could not get full.

”This mixed stew is really not bad—there’s just too little meat.” Bratt ate as he walked, the aroma making quite a few passersby swallow their saliva.

”Be content. Prices may keep getting higher.” Anser sighed.

Silver Scale Bay had fish and farms, and the trade routes had not been cut off, so food could still be supplied normally. But as refugees kept increasing, the situation might get worse.

Bratt quickly finished one portion of mixed stew. He poured the broth into Anser’s portion, stirred it, and kept eating.

One portion of mixed stew was neither especially large nor especially small. An ordinary person could get full with a few pieces of bread alongside it, but Bratt’s appetite was two to three times that of an ordinary person.

By the time they reached the docks, the two of them had just finished eating. The three remaining sweet cakes were stuffed into the backpack by Anser.

”So this is Fishbone Dock, right? Aren’t there a lot of ships here?” Bratt pointed at the noisy dock ahead.

”Don’t rush—let’s go take a look.” It was Anser’s first time seeing so many sailing ships, and he found it quite novel.

Silver Scale Bay had many docks. Fishbone Dock was located in the middle section of the bay; it was the largest in scale, and passenger ships traveling to and from various places basically all gathered here.

There were many people at the dock, shoulder to shoulder. Many carried luggage, but only a few could actually board.

Anser and the others found the house selling tickets. Outside the door and on the windows hung signs reading ”sold out,” and many people were waiting outside with blankets in their arms.

A passenger ship was currently checking tickets and boarding, surrounded by many people. Some tried to slip aboard in the chaos; some wanted to buy other people’s tickets; and others wailed and begged. It was a complete mess.

”Kaleno was right. You can’t buy any—unless you take a small boat.” Bratt’s hopes fell through, and he was a bit disappointed.

”It’s fine. We’re not in a hurry anyway.” Anser comforted him. They had originally planned to go sell things, and they were only stopping by to take a look along the way.

He walked south along the docks, his gaze carefully examining these wooden sailing ships that looked like antiques. The complicated ropes and sails made his head hurt, and he could not help wondering how they were operated.

Here, even a thirty-meter sailing ship counted as a medium-sized sailing ship. In his previous life, he had seen many fishing boats that were larger than this.

”Wouldn’t you get seasick?” He felt that taking this kind of ship on an ocean voyage might be more miserable than going to prison.

Bratt’s attention, meanwhile, was on the cannons: ”I heard this kind of cannon is extremely powerful. Even an ordinary professional couldn’t withstand a single shot.”

”Mm.” Of course Anser knew.

Faerûn’s muskets and cannons were very backward. After many years of development, they still remained at the level of muzzle-loaded smoothbore weapons. Accuracy was poor, but at the end of the day they were still firearms, and their power was anything but weak.

A light smoothbore cannon with a caliber of more than ten pounds had a maximum range of up to 720 meters, with hit damage of 8d10 (8–80). Low-level professionals mainly relied on dodging; trying to tank it head-on was simply courting death.

At this moment, a medium-sized sailing ship slowly pulled in toward the adjacent berth. Before the mooring lines were even secured, a big-bearded man stepped to the side of the ship holding a bell.

Clang, clang, clang…

The rapid ringing suddenly sounded, drawing the attention of many people.

”Anyone going to Palos City? Only five gold coins—five gold coins per person, meals included. Just eighty people; once we’re full, we leave…”

Before he could finish speaking, the crowd surged forward. Anser and the others were right by the berth and were nearly squeezed into the sea.

”Me, me, me—I have money…”

”I’ll buy three tickets…”

”Don’t push…”

”Mom…”

”…”

The bearded man laughed happily. ”Don’t push. Line up properly…”

Soon, the sailing ship steadied. A group of crewmen wearing leather armor and carrying muskets emerged from the cabin. They efficiently lowered the gangplank, spread out to take positions, and scanned their surroundings with vigilant eyes.

The crowd had no patience at all and scrambled to climb aboard.

The crew did not stop them. The bearded man held a sack in his hands, letting people toss money into it without even counting.

Some even took advantage of the chaos, casually throwing in a few silver coins.

Bratt frowned and nudged Anser with his elbow. ”Something’s not right. Who does things like this?”

Passenger ships had rules and procedures: the time, destination, and fare were set; tickets were printed; boarding was done with tickets at the appointed time; and both departure and docking had to be reported to the docks, with taxes paid.

”Five gold coins—this is basically charity.” Anser touched the holy emblem on his chest; it was burning hot.

He had heard of Palos City—a small port city, seemingly more than fifty kilometers north of Baldur’s Gate.

Under normal circumstances, tickets would never be less than three gold coins. In these extraordinary times, even twenty or thirty gold coins would still find passengers. Five gold coins really was no different from charity.

Besides, could such a small ship hold eighty passengers plus dozens of crew members—unless they were packed like livestock?

Anser and the others could see the problem, and of course others noticed it as well. Many people harbored doubts and stayed on the outskirts without stepping forward.

”Slave traders,” Bratt muttered, his hand unconsciously pressing down on the sword hilt.

Anser gave him a slight shake of the head. It wasn’t that he was cold-blooded—it was simply not something they could deal with.

He focused his gaze on the bearded man:

[First Mate of the Conch, Human, Level 4 Fighter (Battle Master)]

There were also professionals among the crew, every one of them armed with muskets. After a few volleys, Bratt and Finn would likely be riddled with holes.

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