“Come on, you know it’s worth more than that.” Jack was arguing with a merchant who’d offered 30 silvers for the rat-faced rogue’s armour and gambeson. “The armour alone is worth more than that.”

  “We don’t get many tall children buying armour,” the merchant replied with a smile. “That’s my best offer.”

  This was the third merchant he’d approached, and they all offered a low price because there weren’t many adventurers for whom the items would fit. 30 silvers was the highest offer he’d had so far.

  “Fine,” Jack said.

  The merchant paid him the 30 silvers and stowed the items away.

  Jack was selling off the rogue’s leftover gear; anything he didn’t need or couldn’t use. He’d sold the small leather gloves and boots for 8 silvers to one of the other merchants. Next on the list were the bow and shortsword. He’d considered keeping the weapons, but decided the coin would be more useful in the long run. The dagger, however, he’d kept, tucked behind his books at home as a backup weapon.

  “Where was that merchant’s stall again?” he muttered, eyes scanning the familiar market lanes as he searched for the woman who sold him his dagger. “I’m sure it was around here…” He circled the area twice but found no sign of the stall. The woman who’d sold him the dagger had vanished, her battered awnings nowhere to be seen. Guess she closed down. Must’ve been doing worse than I thought. He remembered the faded cloth of her clothes and the way her stall leaned as if it was held together by stubbornness.

  Shrugging, he moved on, eyes now searching for another weapons merchant, and soon spotted a promising shopfront. A wrought-iron sign hung above the doorway, depicting crossed blades over a cogwheel. Beneath it, etched in fading gold paint, were the words ‘Bragg & Sons: Weaponsmiths and Traders’. The display window was crowded with gear: swords, axes, polearms, even a few oddities like a collapsible halberd and a spiked gauntlet. Some were standard military-issue, others were enchanted; those nestled within velvet-lined cases, their runes catching the light.

  This looks promising, he thought as he admired the merchandise. The shopfront itself was squat and square, fashioned from soot-darkened sandstone and brass-riveted timber. A faint whirring buzzed from inside, the low churn of an aether-powered generator. As Jack pushed the door open, a mechanical chime let out a loud, metallic DRING, sharp enough to make his ears twitch.

  The inside of the shop was lit, the glow coming from low-hanging aether-lanterns that didn’t reach the entire shop. Brass piping crawled across the ceiling like the roots of a strange metallic tree, releasing occasional puffs of spent aether-steam. Weapons hung from pegs on the walls, arranged by type. Display cases occupied the centre of the room, cluttered with enchanted throwing knives, miniature crossbows, and modular gear. The air smelled of oiled metal, old leather, and the faint tang of scorched aether.

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  Jack stepped up to the heavy wooden counter and placed the rogue’s bow and shortsword before the shopkeeper. “I’m looking to sell these.”

  The shopkeeper was a squat, broad-shouldered dwarf with a thick, plaited beard streaked with soot and grey. He wore bulky aether-goggles, the lenses glowing a faint blue, and a leather apron darkened with scorch marks and hammer oil. He grunted an acknowledgement without looking up.

  The dwarf reached for the bow first, holding it beneath the goggles. The lenses flared brighter as he turned it over in his hands. “Poor quality, lad. The runes have about had it,” he grumbled, tossing the bow aside with an audible clack. Then he picked up the shortsword and gave it a longer inspection. “Better. Steel’s decent, if unremarkable. Handle’s worn but still serviceable.” He looked up, giving Jack a brief but assessing glance. “25 silver for the bow and… 45 for the shortsword.” He placed the sword beside the bow, folding his thick arms. “Take it or leave it.”

  It was about what Jack had expected. Though both items were worth more than the offer, he knew the dwarf had to make a profit. Still, even with the price being fair, he decided to haggle. “I was looking for 90 silvers for the pair,” he said in a casual voice.

  The dwarf scoffed. “I’m sure you were, lad.” He flashed a grin, revealing several gold teeth that glinted in the aether-light. “70 silvers is a good price.”

  When it became clear the merchant wouldn’t budge, Jack shook his head, retrieved the weapons, and made for the door without another word.

  As his hand reached for the handle, the dwarf called after him.

  “75 silvers, not a copper more.”

  Jack paused and smiled. Without turning around, he replied, “80 silvers.” His hand rested on the door handle, ready to leave.

  There was a long, theatrical sigh behind him. “80 silvers… you’re cutting deep into my profits, lad.”

  Jack shrugged and turned back to the counter, his grin growing. “Good doing business with you.” He placed the two weapons down again.

  The dwarf muttered something in dwarvish under his breath, “Hjav eth halagstr jeg hathorth hagglers,” and pulled out a heavy pouch and counted out the coins.

  Jack laughed. “By the Gods, I agree, nothing worse than a haggler.” He understood dwarvish and many other common languages. The dwarf had said, By the Gods, I hate hagglers.

  The dwarf’s eyes widened, and then he burst into laughter. “What’s a young lad like you doin’ knowing the dwarves’ tongue?” He handed Jack the coin.

  Jack grinned. “In a past life, I spent many an hour drinking dwarves under the table. Well, we fell under the table at least.” He wasn’t lying. “Picked up your language from drunk dwarves muttering in their sleep.”

  If there was one thing to like about dwarves, it was their sense of humour. The dwarf gave a mighty roar of a laugh, making the other patrons turn to watch. He patted Jack on the shoulder like an old friend and said, “I’d like to see a wee un like you try to drink a dwarf under any table.” He grinned. “The Hammer and Shield tavern off The Square. Anytime, lad.”

  Jack laughed. “Maybe I’ll see you there one evening.”

  “Maybe, lad. Maybe,” the dwarf replied, still grinning.

  Jack pocketed the silver and stepped out of the shop, 80 silvers richer. I’ve got over a gold now, he thought, walking back into the busy street. “Should be enough for some basic armour. First, though, spell scrolls and then a temple.”

  Heron's Hearth In Another World

  TweekZ